


From Wounds To Scars

by Wesz



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Human, Comfort, Hurt, M/M, Romance, Slow Build, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-08
Updated: 2015-04-23
Packaged: 2018-03-21 21:49:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 23,950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3705681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wesz/pseuds/Wesz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles Stilinski is a student at Beacon High who was only five years old when his mother passed away, leaving him and his father, the Sheriff, alone. With a wall covered in pictures of her, Stiles ventures to the lake where she died every Thanksgiving to remember his mother.<br/>But one day, when he’s seventeen years old, he meets a guy there; one who's mysterious and silent. His leather jacket hugs his upper body as he stares out across the lake, and Stiles tries to make contact, but the stranger ignores him. He only says his name when Stiles is about to leave. “Derek”.<br/>Stiles has never had this happen to him, but he can’t get the name out of his head. What was this man doing there, at that lake full of memories, and how might his presence affect Stiles’ grief?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> First off, a major thanks to my wonderful boyfriend, Alex, for beta reading this story! Then, another major thanks to Spencer, for creating an awesome book cover.  
> [](http://tinypic.com?ref=2a85kk2)

Birds are chirping, or at least the few of them that are left. It's the end of November. A chilly Thanksgiving day, but a beautiful one. The sunlight is seeping through branches of trees that have shed their leaves. Their remnants are colored in shades of red and brown and Stiles can feel them crack under his shoes.

His long fingers are holding a photograph, just like every year. He has forgotten his gloves and his skin has turned a faint red from the cold. His breath is forming small clouds in the air, and he puffs them out rhythmically.

Scott had offered to come with him, but Stiles had declined the offer. He explained, once again, that this was something he wanted to do by himself. He knows Scott's waiting for his text to tell him he's fine and back home again. It's a thoughtful gesture, but unnecessary. The spot's abandoned; Stiles has never seen anyone there. It's in a safe part of the woods, right in front of the lake.

Or at least it's safe now.

He remembers it like it was yesterday, even though it has been twelve years. His little gloved hand was held in his mother's, a dark orange hat covering his head. Stiles remembers the piece of clothing vividly, because it had ears on it, like a fox, and it was his favorite. It was a windy Thursday and in the end his hat had been swept up and blown deeper into the woods.

But that wasn’t the only favorite thing Stiles lost that day.

His mother had a camera strapped around her neck; one of those big, fancy ones. If anything, Stiles can't even remember her without it. She would hunch down or stand on her toes, picking Stiles up and letting him see the world through her perspective. It was a different angle, somehow more beautiful through the lens of a camera. A utopia of a world they would never live in, but also called home.

Stiles' mother made him see all that.

Now he's holding one of the few hundred pictures they took together and making his way to the spot where she was killed.

He's almost there when he suddenly notices a black dot sitting between the reeds. It's exactly where Stiles has to be. He squints his eyes to see what it is. His mouth is a little agape when he recognizes the contours of that of a person. A guy, actually. The leather jacket that is hugging his torso is shimmering a little in the sunlight, like the water he's staring across.

Stiles hesitates for a moment, looking back at the road he has just come from and then back at the spot. After a small internal debate, his eyes fall onto the photograph in his hands, the memory of his mission causing him to decide to just do what he had initially intended; pay his respects to his mother.

In the twenty seconds Stiles needs to walk up to the guy, he’s wondering if he should talk to him. Maybe he should explain what he’s doing here or maybe he should at least greet him. He isn't sure yet, but before he knows it, words are already spilling out of his mouth, heavy and sinking between the twigs under his feet.

"Hey, man, what's up?"

The guy turns his head a little, just enough that he can glare at Stiles from the corner of his eyes.

"Hi," Stiles tries again.

But when the guy has examined Stiles, he turns back.

Stiles frowns, because that’s incredibly rude. He walks around him, stepping into his line of sight, and waves. The smile on his face is goofy, but forced. The guy glances up at him and for a second Stiles can see the colors of his eyes; every single one of them. All of them. They actually look like tiny little rainbows, circling around his pupils. It's intriguing, to say the least, because Stiles had always thought people only had one iris color. Like his own boring brown. Just brown. No hints of mint, shades of opal or tinges of sapphire. Just brown.

The guy lets out a deep breath, pulling Stiles out of his thoughts. The frown on his face deepens and he scratches his neck. "Can I sit down with you?" he then asks, knowing the question is a bit lame, but at least he's being polite.

Much to his surprise - not - the guy still doesn't answer, and Stiles figures that his silence is consent, so he flops down next to him.

He crosses his legs under himself, photograph still tight in his hands. He stares across the lake as well, but can't figure out what the guy next to him is looking at. A breeze is rippling quiet waves over the water and they puddle at the shore, inches from their feet.

"I'm Stiles," he decides to introduce himself, sticking out a hand formally.

It lingers in the air for a couple of seconds and Stiles seriously doesn't know how someone can be so good at ignoring someone else. After a beat, he gives up, puffing out a breath and retracting his cold fingers. The reeds are making soft rustling noises around them and Stiles feels unsure.

So he decides to give the guy a taste of his own medicine; ignoring him all the same. It's a childish act, but Stiles feels like he deserves it. He scrambles onto his knees, feeling the dampness of the grass through his jeans, and carefully puts down the picture onto the water's surface. Applying the slightest of pressure, he watches the dark depths slowly swallow the materialized memory before closing his eyes and whispering a little prayer. His mouth forms a sentence. An inaudible "I miss you, mom" as the picture sinks down.

Next year, when Stiles returns, the picture will be nowhere to be found. He has never figured out where they go, and that's okay. He just imagines his mom taking the gesture and treasuring it. It's a soothing thought, like she's still around somewhere, even if it's at this tragic spot.

Stiles sits there for a while longer, silently recalling the childhood he had adored so much. As he does so, he forgets even about the stranger sitting next to him. He's so quiet, Stiles can't even hear him breathe, but when he sits back into his original position, he can still see the dot of black from the corner of his eyes. Somehow, the presence is soothing and for a second Stiles figures that his ignorance is actually pretty respectful. Then again, he hadn't known what Stiles was going to do here in the first place.

Minutes later, when the weight he has been feeling on his shoulders is lifted, Stiles gets up. He pats the cold from his clothes, pondering if he should say goodbye, but in the end he doesn’t.

He turns around and begins to walk off, and when he's only four steps away from the guy, he suddenly hears his voice behind him.

"Derek."

A shiver runs down Stiles' spine and his phone starts buzzing in his pocket.

"Yes, Scott," he answers after he has seen the name of his best friend on the screen. "I'm fine, on my way home now."

He kicks the leaves on his path, rolling his eyes at Scott's words.

"Wait, what do you mean you're in my room? Shouldn't you be cooking with your mom or something?"

It takes Stiles half an hour to get home. After he has parked his jeep and he has found the key to his house - he should really stop putting it in his bag, it's too big and the key's too small - he walks up to his bedroom.

He sighs when he opens the door to find Scott is, indeed, there, on his bed.

"You don't have to do this every Thanksgiving, you know?" he says, falling down next to him. His friends shuffles to the side a little.

"Why not? I know this is a bittersweet day for you," Scott replies, a dumbstruck look on his face. He's blinking at Stiles with such innocence that Stiles can't stay annoyed.

"I suppose it is," he says, trying to sound casual about it, but Scott knows him better than that. He stares up at the ceiling while his friend gazes down at him, waiting patiently.

"It just feels a bit weird every year. You know, remembering her, reliving that day that I can never seem to forget," he mumbles.

Scott nods, putting his hand on Stiles' shoulder and rubs his collar bone with his thumb. "I know," he says, voice low.

They sit like that for a while and it's a dickish thing to think, but Scott doesn't actually know. Sure, it's not like he has a dad, not since the guy ran off, but at least he's still alive. Scott doesn't know what it feels like to truly lose a parent.

And Stiles instantly apologizes for that feeling. It's a bit ungrateful, because Scott's always there for him, always comforting him. He's a great friend, his best friend for that matter, and he shouldn't blame him for not having gone through the same thing he has. If anything, he should be happy Scott hasn't gone through it. Because it sucks. It sucks balls to miss someone you know you're not sure of ever seeing again. It sucks that you can't text them; can't call them. It sucks to only have pictures.

Stiles sniffs, wiping his nose and blinking away the tears that have formed in his eyes.

"There was someone on my spot today," he then remembers to tell Scott.

His friend's eyebrows knit together. "Really? What was he doing there?"

"I don't know. He was just sitting there, didn't even say a word."

“Not one word?”

“Nothing.”

"Weird."

"I know, right?"

"Did you still do what you always do?" Scott wonders, lips pursed in a thin line.

Stiles gives a single nod. "I did. Figured I'd ignore him, since he was doing the same to me."

Scott chuckles. "Typical."

Stiles ignores his remark, shrugging it off. "When I walked off, he did say his name, though."

"Well, I suppose that's something."

"Yeah," Stiles agrees, a hard look on his face. "He's called Derek."

Scott nods his head with slow beats. "Never heard of a Derek before."

"Me neither, but I think he was older than me. Like, a lot."

"What? Like, fifty?"

"No, you moron, just...twenty-something."

"Oh."

Silence falls between them again and somehow Stiles finds himself trying to figure out Derek's age. He didn't look old enough to be thirty, that was for sure. And he was clothed in quite a young way. Maybe next time he’ll ask. If there'll be a next time. Would that be in a year? Stiles only goes to that spot once a year. But why was he thinking about all this?

"I should go," Scott pops their bubble. "Are you okay?"

"I'm okay."

Scott flashes a tiny smile and gets up. He puts on his shoes and his jacket, leaving the room before the door falls into its lock, leaving Stiles alone with his questions.

At the end of the afternoon, Sheriff Stilinski is in the kitchen cooking dinner, while Stiles sets the table. He takes out the nice tablecloth, puts down the three plates in a perfect alignment, and lights the candles in the middle. The napkins he tries to fold into swans look like shot birds, and he curses the YouTube video he had watched about origami for not being clear enough with its instructions.

He turns around when he hears footsteps behind him. His dad eyes the third place at the table, leaning back against the door frame. The lines on his face are visible, mostly around his eyes. The look in them is tortured, and Stiles feels the same way when his father takes another quiet sip from his scotch.

There's tension in the air between them and Stiles scratches his neck. "Did I forget anything?" he asks softly; cautiously.

His dad shakes his head. "Not a single thing," he answers. His voice is rasp, cracking from the dryness the liquor has caused. "You haven't forgotten anything," he repeats, now sounding a little more distant, as if he's lost deep in his thoughts.

Stiles nervously scratches the top of the chair he's standing next to, pretending there's a spot there. He breathes in, oxygen heavy in his lungs. "Good..." he sighs.

The sheriff pushes himself away from the wall. "Son, you really have to stop doing that," he says, gesturing to the empty seat with his glass as he slumps up to him.

Stiles shrugs it off. "Why?"

"Because it's not healthy."

"It's not healthy to remember her?"

His dad sighs. Stiles can smell the alcohol on his breath. "That's not what I mean. You know that," he answers. "But this day is already a sad one, you don't need to emphasize that."

Stiles looks down, back at the spot where his mother used to sit, then back at his father. "I just don't want her to feel like we've forgotten about her."

"We haven't," the stern response sounds. His dad puts a hand on Stiles' shoulder. "But we have moved on."

Stiles narrows his eyes a little. "Have you?" he asks, pointing at the drink in his father's hand.

"This is my way of remembering her."

"Really, dad?" Stiles fires back. "You're telling me that drinking is a better way to remember her than by setting up an extra place at our table?"

"Stiles, I want to have a nice dinner with you without being confronted by our loss every second."

"So you want to forget her?"

The man takes a step back, staring at his son with disbelief.

"What?" Stiles continues. "At least that explains the drinking."

The lines on his dad's face deepen. "I'm not having this discussion with you. Now remove the extra set-up."

"No."

"Do it, Stiles."

"No!" Stiles says, with a little more force. "I'm not going to forget about her."

"I'm not saying you should forget about her. I'm asking you to have some respect," the Sheriff counters.

"No. No, that's not what you're asking. You want me to forget about her, just like you’re trying to do by drinking today. And I'm not gonna do it."

"I don't drink to forget her, Stiles. But I don't need to justify myself to you. I'm still an adult, and you're still a child."

"Oh? I'm a child now?" Stiles repeats, venom dripping from his words. He walks past his dad, grabbing the keys to his jeep from the dresser in the living room. "Then watch me act like one." He storms off into the hallway.

"Stiles!"

But the front door slams shut.

Stiles’ jeep roars to life when he starts the engine, speeding off the driveway and onto the road. The tires screech when he accelerates, driving off into the distance, unsure of where he's going.

And without a destination, Stiles proves someone can drive for hours. He's going in circles around Beacon Hills, stopping at Lydia's house once, but he decides that it's Thanksgiving and he doesn't want to impede on her family time. The same decision goes for Scott, but it takes him an extra stop before he has finally convinced himself.

His knuckles are white from gripping the steering wheel so hard. Stiles is gritting his teeth and knows that he has been an ass to his dad, but he can't help but feel betrayed. He can't help but feel like the man who once loved his mother was now telling him it was 'unhealthy' to remember her.

Suddenly, Stiles knows where to go. He takes a left on the next road, hitting the gas a little more forcefully than he should have. He refuses to listen to his dad, so he's going to pursue his intentions.

Twenty minutes later, he's walking on the same path he had taken that morning, only this time it's cold, and Stiles has forgotten his coat. He flicks the hood of his sweater over his head, ignoring the wind that cuts over the already reddened skin on his nose.

He's kicking leaves as he makes his way to his spot, and as he moves closer, Stiles can feel a glimmer of hope rising in his chest. At first he doesn't understand why it's there, but it makes him think. It makes him realize that he doesn't want to be alone. He wants to go talk to someone. Scott. Lydia. Unfortunaetly, the guilt of intruding on their holiday proves too much.

And just like that, Derek's name echoes in his mind. A guy who has literally spoken one word to him, and hasn't even given him a single look, but somehow Stiles hopes he's still there.

He can feel it in his limbs. His feet are numb and his fingers are buzzing in anticipation. A warm feeling in his upper body is growing with every step he takes. The warmth is about to burst out of him when he finally closes in on the last corner he needs to take before he'll be able to look upon his spot. The last few inches before his eyes might fall on Derek's leather jacket. The last few seconds before he might see a person, before he might be able to talk to someone he feels even just a little comfortable with. Hell, Stiles isn't even sure if he does feels comfortable with him, but it's still a remedy; still an option. It's a glimmer. It's hope.

And it's in vain, because his spot is empty.

Derek is not there and Stiles is alone.

It finally starts sinking in when he sits down. He's alone. The dampness of it settles into his clothes, freezing his bones. He's alone. He's alone and it has never occurred to him. He has come to this spot every year, and every time that he’s pushed another photograph into the water, he’s become more and more alone. Holding on to his grief has driven him to shut people out, but Stiles doesn’t even blame himself for it. No, he blames the world. He blames fate for taking his mother away from him, and he blames the universe for not looking out for him. It’s unfair.

Stiles doesn't even check the time as he makes his way back home. His body is shivering all over and his teeth are chattering from the cold. The house is quiet when he gets in, his dad has already gone up to bed. Stiles picks up the empty whisky glass, inspecting it like it can give him some answers, but in the end he just puts it back down. He just doesn't understand. No one understands.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles Stilinski is a student at Beacon High who was only five years old when his mother passed away, leaving him and his father, the Sheriff, alone. With a wall covered in pictures of her, Stiles ventures to the lake where she died every Thanksgiving to remember his mother.  
> But one day, when he’s seventeen years old, he meets a guy there; one who's mysterious and silent. His leather jacket hugs his upper body as he stares out across the lake, and Stiles tries to make contact, but the stranger ignores him. He only says his name when Stiles is about to leave. “Derek”.  
> Stiles has never had this happen to him, but he can’t get the name out of his head. What was this man doing there, at that lake full of memories, and how might his presence affect Stiles’ grief?

The weekend is terrible. He and his dad hardly speak to one other. It makes the atmosphere thick and uncomfortable, like smoke. It turns his home into a foreign place, one he fears.

So Stiles is glad when he gets to go to school on Monday.

At lunch time, Scott's sitting with Lydia at their regular table. Stiles walks up to them, muttering a soft 'hi' and sitting down across from them. His friends examine him with suspicious looks.

"What happened to you?" Lydia asks, pointing her finger at him.

"Are you okay?" Scott wonders, arms crossed in front of him on the table.

Stiles puffs out a quiet breath. "Had a fight with my dad last Thursday."

"What? On Thanksgiving?" Scott asks.

"Yeah."

"What about?" Lydia wants to know.

Stiles shrugs a little. He rests his head in the palm of his hand. "...My mom."

Scott's face falls and Lydia looks away for a second. A short silence rests between them, before Lydia asks with a soft voice, "What happened?"

"He got mad, because I set up an extra place at our table. You know, the one where she used to sit?" Stiles explains. "He said I should stop doing it."

"Well, that sounds a bit harsh..." Scott mumbles, pity evident in his voice.

"Did he tell you why?" Lydia continues. Her large eyes have narrowed a little, like she's trying to solve a difficult crossword puzzle. One of the many Stiles has seen her do whenever she’s bored.

"He said it's unhealthy."

"Unhealthy?"

"Yeah, like... Like I should stop trying to remember her, but also not forget her," Stiles tries to explain, hard look on his face. "Anyway, he's one to talk. He was drinking again."

"He was?" Scott asks with a pained expression.

"Yup. Even said it was 'his way of remembering her'," Stiles spits out the words.

"How? She didn't drink, did she?"

"Nope."

Scott bites his lip, effectively telling Stiles that he's out of words to say. Lydia, on the contrary, isn't.

"Have you tried talking to him since?"

"I haven't. I stormed out during our fight, went out, drove around town..." He doesn't tell them that he’d been outside their doors, knowing they'd feel guilty for not noticing. "...Anyway, it's awkward now. Like, weird awkward."

"Like you're strangers..." Lydia sighs, tucking a strand of her red hair behind her ear. Her stare is empty, fixed on the table in front of them.

Stiles knows she has never had that strong a relationship with her mother. He feels for her. He didn't mean to make her feel bad by sharing his problem.

"I'm sorry, guys, I didn't mean to bring you down," he apologizes.

"No! No, it's okay, man," Scott doesn't hesitate to reassure him. "You can always talk to us."

"Scott's right," Lydia agrees, straightening herself up. She purses her lips, thinking. "How long has your mother been gone now?"

Stiles frowns a little at the sudden question. "I was five, so...twelve years?"

"That's a long time, Stiles."

"I know it's a long time. You don't have to tell me that," Stiles replies with a bitter tone.

"But not long enough to stop setting up her place at the table...?"

Stiles chews on the inside of his cheek, shrugging. "I don't know."

"I'm just saying that...if your dad's so bothered by it, why don't you stop doing it...?" she offers tentatively, knowing she’s stepping on thin ice.

"Because I don't want her to think we've forgotten about her," Stiles explains again. He's starting to get really tired of having to explain himself.

"But you haven't, man," Scott interrupts. "You show her that by going to that place in the woods every year."

Stiles opens his mouth to say something, but then closes it. It still doesn't seem right to him, but he feels like it's going to be an endless argument, so he's giving up.

"Let's just stop talking about it, okay?" He requests, taking his backpack up into his lap and fishing out his lunch. "It'll be okay."

His friends nod, but it's not a very convincing gesture. They're respectful, though, and Lydia starts chattering about her upcoming date.

"...So I haven't decided which one of them suits me more. I mean, they're equally handsome, obviously, you know, since they're twins." She sighs, staring off into the distance. "But I have to say, Aiden dresses better. And there's this...this little something in his eyes that's just... I don't know." Another sigh. "But Ethan is a little more tanned, which goes better with my skin tone."

Stiles frowns at her, looking across at Scott. "Is she seriously talking about them like they’re accessories?" he asks, finger pointing at the girl in question.

Scott shrugs a little, an innocent look splayed across his face. Then he turns back to the girl. "I don't want to spoil your fun, but I'm pretty sure one of them is gay..."

Lydia's lips part as her jaw drops an inch. She stays quiet for a moment after she has turned to Scott. The guy slumps in on himself, because he's pretty sure she's going to slap him.

But then it seems to dawn on the girl. "See, I've read somewhere that that's common in twins; homosexuality. In most cases it's at least one of them..."

After that she doesn't stop talking about the 'odd phenomenon' and, for a moment, Stiles forgets about his problems.

But as soon as the bell rings and announces that lunch is over, he remembers. What's frustrating about it all is that he doesn't know what he's looking for. Even his current situation with his dad is a side-issue. Right now, he wants to figure out why he still feels the need to set up that table; why he feels so guilty all the time. He needs answers, a clear point of view, someone who understands where he's coming from.

But at the moment there’s no such person in his life, and it's annoying as hell. To make matters even worse, it's raining when the school day finally ends. He runs out of the building towards his jeep, rain drops splattering onto his coat. Once inside his car, he notices that the raindrops falling against the roof are causing a white noise that makes him feel jittery. His foot is tapping on the floor, his forehead on his steering wheel. His mind won't shut up and, God, he can't think clearly with that rain hitting the roof of his jeep.

A frustrated groan erupts from his throat. He needs to go somewhere. Somewhere quiet. Somewhere he can think. His house is not an option, the air is too heavy there. He's also not gonna go to his spot, because he'll be soaking wet before he even gets there.

But then what's left? An abandoned building? Beacon Hills sure has enough of those. He snickers at himself, because it's a ridiculous option.

Outside, students are running through the rain. Stiles' eyes fall onto a girl. She's pressing books against her chest, and looks cold in just a sweater. It seems like she's waiting for someone to pick her up, maybe her boyfriend. Stiles shakes his head, thinking about how ridiculous it is that he's letting her wait for him in the rain.

But the books in her arms suddenly remind him of a place. A place he hasn’t been to for a long time. Maybe even twelve years. It's this little book store that sells coffee and artsy stuff. Stiles and his mom used to go there to get supplies for her camera, or just to look at things. She always said she would stumble upon at least one thing that would inspire her.

With that thought locked in his mind, Stiles drives off.

The store is still there and Stiles has to admit he's a little surprised by that. It doesn't seem like it gets many customers, but then again, he's pretty sure it's the same old woman who's the only worker there. She greets him with a friendly smile and a nod. Stiles smiles back at her before she turns back to her little inventory list. He looks around the room. It's small, but it has its charms. There are auburn shelves filled with books. Some of them stick out, and the whole place smells like wood, almost a bit like the forest.

Stiles wipes off the remains of the rain from his forehead, sticks his hands in his pockets afterwards. He shuffles through the aisle, looking at titles about painting, writing and philosophy. There is even some lost books about spirituality and witchcraft. He frowns a little at them, wondering if there is anyone who still believes in such things. He walks to the back of the store, turning a corner on the right and smiling when his eye catches a wall of pictures. It reminds him of his bedroom, where he has a wall covered in pictures as well. His mom’s pictures. Of which he takes one every year to bring to the lake.

In the store, there are polaroid cameras set up underneath the pictures. They look old and Stiles wonders if they're for sale or if they're just there for decorating purposes; that's how fragile they look. On the far left are some art supplies.

He bends forward whilst on his tiptoes to look more closely at the pictures. They're mostly of landscapes, a bit vague and yellow around the edges. Stiles looks at every single one of them, his mother's words echoing through his mind. Maybe he will find an answer in one of them. Maybe there would be one item in this store that would inspire him as well.

Across the wall are stands with colourful stones, tiny religious sculptures and dream catchers. They all seem a bit weird and spooky to Stiles, with feathers, sharp and soft edges. The knife with a pentagram on it doesn't really add to Stiles' comfort either.

Then again, altogether, the objects give off a certain vibe. A serenity that intrigues Stiles. He turns back around to the covered wall, taking a step back, squinting his eyes. Maybe all those tiny pictures form one big picture, one he doesn't see yet.

After a couple of minutes his legs start to tire, so Stiles decides to sit down.

There is a small coffee corner on the other side of the store. The few pieces of furniture that are there look old and ragged and Stiles sits down on one of the chairs. It cracks, whining from the sudden weight. From this angle he can still see the wall. He sighs, stretching out his arms, folding his hands in front of himself as he continues to stare.

"Would you like a cup of tea, dear?" He didn't hear the woman walking up to him. He looks up a little confused.

"Err, yeah. Yeah, sure."

The woman smiles again and strolls off, coming back with a mug of boiling hot water a minute later.

"It's chamomile," she explains. "Calms you down."

Stiles' jaw drops an inch, but before he can respond, she's already back at the front. He mumbles a quiet "thank you", pondering for a second if maybe she's the one reading the books about witchcraft.

The sound of rain hitting the pavement breaks the silence when the door opens again. Stiles can hear the woman's voice flicker with excitement when she walks up to the person who has just walked in. It makes Stiles turn around and he freezes when he recognizes the guy.

"Derek?" The name escapes from his mouth. Stiles quickly hides behind the collar of his shirt when he hears himself saying it.

Derek turns around, a bit surprised. His eyes meet Stiles' for a second, but then, without saying something, he turns back to talk to the woman. Stiles is just about too far away to overhear their conversation. His heart is thumping in his chest and suddenly the fact hat he's drinking chamomile tea has become even more ironic.

Stiles wonders if Derek is going to come up to him to say hi. Then, Stiles asks himself if he should walk up to him if he doesn't. Somehow it feels like this huge crossroad of destiny and the pressure of it weighs down onto his shoulders. He licks his dry lips, before biting down on the bottom one while sucking the top one into his mouth. They make a plopping sound when he releases them. He shifts uncomfortably in his chair when Derek comes back into sight and goes to look at some of the books. Stiles glances at him, trying to go unnoticed, but therefore can't make out what themes Derek's exactly looking at.

He takes a book and checks the back of it before he vanishes again. A minute later he comes back with a similar looking cup Stiles has. The smell of coffee infiltrates Stiles' nose and Derek's coming his way.

Stiles holds his breath, immediately searching for something on the table that he can use to seem occupied with. He finds his own cup, quickly taking a sip and burning his mouth. He winces right when Derek passes him, heart sinking in his chest. Stiles inhales sharply to cool off his tongue, but with that inhales a deep whiff of Derek's scent. It reminds him of burning wood during a campfire and of patrichor; the smell of rain hitting the heated asphalt after a long summer. It's nice.

Stiles watches Derek sit down at a table next to him. He seems to be occupied with his book and if Stiles turns his head just a little he can glance at him from the corner of his eyes, without being too obvious about it. From Derek's point of view, it'll probably look like he's still examining the wall of pictures.

Stiles tries to read the title of the book Derek's reading. It takes him a while, but in the end he can make out the word 'painting'. Instantly, Stiles wonders if Derek is a painter. Well, he probably is or else he wouldn't be reading that book. Stiles just means if he's a real painter. Like, a painter that has sold some of his work, not just someone who likes to paint.

But why is he paying so much attention to him? He could just go up to him and talk, like any other normal human being would do. It's just a bit awkward when you've already seen the person, had that moment of recognition and nothing happened. Derek has been sitting there for five minutes now, Stiles just a few feet away from him. He can't just get up now and pull up a chair next to him.

But he also can't leave without saying anything, that would be awkward.

So Stiles is stuck.

Then again, he's also already feeling awkward, so finally he concludes he'll just make it worse for himself.

"Hey," he says, after he has gotten up and has sat down next to Derek.

The guy ups his eyebrows at him and it's still raining outside, but inside Derek's pupils the sun in shining, painting rainbows in his irises. Stiles stares at them for a beat, shaking his head back to reality when he notices Derek's frown deepening.

"Yes?" he just asks expectantly.

Stiles runs his nail across his cup, staring down at the tea. "I, err...I just wanna to-" he stammers, making weird gestures with his hands. "Do you even remember me?"

Derek gives him a single nod.

Stiles squints his right eye. He's going to need a little bit more than that. "Are you sure...?"

"Yes," Derek answers. "We met last Thursday."

Stiles perks up a little. "Yeah, we did."

Derek's nodding again, a short silence falling between them. Stiles continues to fumble with his mug, because Derek didn't even look at him the other day and now he's staring at Stiles. The boy crosses his legs under the table, tries to think of conversation material. His lips part a couple of times, but then close a second later. Some more hand gestures.

"What brings you here?" Derek then saves Stiles from his discomfort.

He exhales a relieved breath. "Well, I've been going through some stuff lately and I wanted to go somewhere quiet, you know, where I can be alone with my thoughts. I've been to this place many times before, but I didn't think it would still be here, so you can imagine my surprise when it was. Anyway, I used to come here all the time when I was a kid, but then something happened and I didn't anymore. I'm glad it still exists, although I wonder how. I mean, it doesn't seem very busy at the moment."

Stiles feels his cheeks redden when he realizes he has been ranting. He shies away a little, scratching his neck. Derek's still staring at him with that intense look.

"I meant, what brings you to my table, interrupting my reading time?" he replies.

Stiles' face ignites and he's pretty sure his skin is going to burn off. "Oh. Oh, I thought-" he stutters. "I thought you meant-" He coughs. "But you didn't, so, err..." He points his finger at Derek, narrowing his eyes as he does so, before slumping back in his chair. "I don't know," he finalizes, followed by a big sigh. He gets up, taking his cup from the table. "I'm sorry. I didn't meant to disturb you." He turns around and walks back to his original spot.

"It was just a simple question," Derek's voice sounds behind him. Stiles swears there's even a hint of amusement in it somewhere, hidden behind thick layers of indifference. "I didn't say you had to leave."

Stiles rolls his eyes at himself. He had been thinking way too much into it. "Oh, right," he tries to sound casual, sitting back down.

"So why did you stop coming here?" Derek asks, eyes back on the book in front of him. He's holding it open with one hand, the other is supporting his head, elbow on the table.

Stiles presses his lips into a thin line before answering, "Well, since my mom passed away I didn't have much reason to any more."

"I see that. Did she like to come here?"

For a moment, Stiles is dumbstruck, because for the first time someone isn't giving him sympathetic looks. No surprised, pitiful, meaningless apologies when they hear his mom has died. It's refreshing and it makes the whole ordeal less of an issue.

"She did. She was a photographer, so she liked looking at the pictures on the wall," Stiles explains, nudging his head towards the polaroids. "She said this place was inspiring to her." He looks around the store again. "I can finally see why."

"Finally?"

"Oh, yeah, I mean, I couldn't before, because I was, like, five years old."

"Ah."

Stiles nods, taking another sip from his tea, which has finally reached a drinkable temperature. "So, do you come here often?"

"Occasionally."

"To read about painting?"

"Among other things."

"Like what?"

"You're quite curious, aren't you?"

Stiles blushes, not aware that he was prying. He didn't realize he was sounding a little too much like his dad during an interrogation. "Sorry, I tend to do that."

There's a humming in the back of Derek's throat. Stiles shuffles with his feet again. His eyes fall onto Derek's mug and he notices the guy drinks his coffee black. Stiles grimaces at it and for a second he wonders if the guy also smokes, because that would totally fit into the image. The image of Derek being one of those hipsters that likes painting and philosophy. The ones that drink strong coffee, because they need to be awake to recognize the beauty in the life around them. They smoke cigarettes to be alone with their thoughts. And as their cup empties and they take the last drag of their cigarette they have this new profound logic of life that has already been seen by others. But somehow they just know how to put it down into difficult words on their white laptops to make it sound more special.

Stiles scoffs at his own train of thoughts. Derek glances up at him, narrowing his eyes a little, making Stiles slump in on himself. He takes another sip of his tea.

"Do you smoke?"

Derek frowns at him. It's the first time Stiles feels like he has truly caught his attention. "No."

"Oh."

"Why are you asking?"

Stiles shrugs. "Just a question."

Derek's gaze lingers for another beat and it makes Stiles pulse raise. There's something about Derek's eyes being on him that makes him feel nervous and excited. Like, when you're at a concert, in the middle of a crowd, but you can swear the artist is looking at you. It's intriguing and Stiles has never felt more interesting. He vows to himself to ask more odd questions, to feed the never ending hunger to feeling special.

Derek goes back to his reading and now Stiles is just sitting there. What more weird questions can he ask? Come on, he wants to talk. There is something about Derek that makes him want to spill all of his secrets. Though he doesn't know if that feelings comes from desperation or from friendly anticipation. It doesn't matter either, because when Stiles is feeling something, he acts on it. Without thinking about it.

"Do you think it's weird that I still like to remember my mom?" he asks. "My dad says it's unhealthy, but he drinks, so I don't think his opinion is valid. He also says it's disrespectful, but, like I said, his opinion irrelevant."

Derek's eyebrows knit together, but he doesn't look up from his book. "I don't think it's weird."

"Do you think it's unhealthy?"

"A little."

"Do you think it's disrespectful?"

"Depends."

"On what?"

"On how often you remember her and how you do it."

"I set up her place at the table during Thanksgiving, because she died on that day. It was her favourite holiday." Stiles stares at his cup, his eyes are empty, lost in memories. "I think it's a nice gesture." He sighs. "And I always go to the spot she died every year, but I guess you've already figured that."

"I have."

"Anyway, my dad and I fought about the set-up thing, because he thinks I should knock it off. He says he doesn't want to be reminded of her."

Derek nods slowly. It's quiet for a while.

Stiles cocks his head a little, eyes flicking up at Derek again. "So what do you think?"

Derek shrugs. The white wife beater he's wearing tightens around his strong arms. "I think you're a selfish child who wants to pursue his own ways, without caring about his dad's feelings. I also think it has been twelve years and you should get over it."

Stiles' jaw drops an inch. He knows his dad, Lydia and Scott have basically said the same thing, but neither one of them have put it out there so bluntly. "Excuse me?"

"I think you should get over it."

"Yes, I heard you," Stiles replies, rolling his eyes. "I was just taken off guard by how much of an ass you're being."

"You asked for my opinion."

"Yes, but I--"

"And my opinion is that you're selfish for forcing your grief down your father's throat. It sounds to me like your dad has finally accepted that she's gone - I mean, he wouldn't get upset over it if he hasn't - and that you haven't."

"I've accepted it as well," Stiles goes against Derek.

"Have you, though?"

Stiles frowns. "Of course I have. It has been twelve years."

"Then why didn't you respect your dad's wishes and still set up that place?"

Stiles gapes at the guy. He falls silent and scratches the table in front of him.

"What?" Derek says. "That wasn't what you wanted to hear?"

Stiles' mouth closes and he licks his lips. He chews on his tongue, a little hurt by the truth. "I don't know. But I do know that you don't have to be such a dick about it..." His scratching has changed into drawing patterns.

Derek closes his book. It startles Stiles a little. The frown on Derek's face has deepened and while his jawline was already strong and edgy, it now looks like it can cut through glass. He stares at Stiles intently. "I'm not a dick for speaking my mind. You asked for my opinion and I gave it to you. It just wasn't what you wanted to hear. Don't judge me for being honest. I'm not one of your friends and I won't sugar-coat everything for you."

Stiles' eyes have widened and he stammers, "I'm s-sorry. I didn't mean to--"

"Of course you didn't."

Stiles' cheeks fill with air before he puffs out a heavy breath. He's on the verge of dumping himself in a black void and be sad and whiny about Derek's words, but then decides to step up and get over himself. It's almost as if Derek's confident and straight forward attitude is rubbing off on Stiles. He meets Derek's gaze, once again taken aback by the many colours in his eyes.

"You're right. I'm sorry. Next time I'll ask for your opinion, I'll be more prepared."

Derek's face softens and there even is a hint of a smile pulling on the left corner of his lips. Stiles can also see the beginning of his two front teeth.

"You should be..." Derek takes a chug from his coffee. He picks up the mug by the top, not from the sides and Stiles finds there's something strong about that movement. Derek opens his book again, going back to his reading. For a moment Stiles thinks he has lost him to the art of literature for a second time, but Derek's eyes flick back up. He shows a crooked smile, baring the right side of his straight teeth. "...Maybe then we can be friends."

Stiles' ears heat up hearing those words. He smiles, staring down into his empty cup, which has suddenly become very interesting.

Half an hour later, Stiles goes home. It's dinner time and still pouring outside. His hair is getting wet as he walks to his jeep, but this time it doesn't bother him. At the moment, he feels like his feet are lifting off the ground, taking him to where there is no rain. Because the sun is always shining above the clouds. There's even this ridiculous pop song stuck in his head. He hums it all the way home, until he's at his front door. The melody fades when he sticks the key into the lock and walks in. His stomach feels tight, as if it has wrapped around itself.

His dad is sitting at the dining table, paperwork spread around him. There are pictures of crime scenes and suspects. The smell of frustration is thick in the air and it settles in Stiles' chest when his father groans. The Sheriff folds his hands behind his head with a pained expression on his face.

Stiles hesitates. "Hard case?"

His dad looks up at him, kind of surprised. "Unsolvable," he answers.

Stiles swallows. "Can I... Can I help?" he offers, sticking out a hand, gesturing at the problem. Or maybe at the invisible bond between them. Because maybe, right now, that's the unsolvable hard case.

A smile creeps onto his father's face. It warms Stiles' heart. "Sure, son. Sit down." He pulls out a chair from under the table.

A weight lifts off Stiles' shoulders and he slumps down next to his dad. The rest of the house is dark, only the lamp above them is illuminating the space between them. It's intimate, like they're on a secret mission.

They stare are the pictures together in silence. Stiles reads the report with half an eye on his dad. After a while, when he has scrambled his courage together, he says, "I'm sorry for walking out the other day."

His dad smiles a little. "It's alright, son. I get it."

"Next time I'll listen."

"You don't always have to listen," the Sheriff says with a lopsided smile. "You just have to understand."

"Oh."

"Do you?"

Stiles frowns, a hard look on his face. He catches his dad's gaze, debating saying he does, but then remembers Derek's cruel honesty. "I'm sorry, dad, but I don't think I do."

His father smiles, amuse visible in every line on his face. "Then let me explain it to you."

Stiles nods, resting his head on his hand.

"Why do you go to the woods every Thanksgiving?"

"To pay my respects," Stiles answers matter-of-factly. He doesn't need time to think about the answer.

"And that feels right, doesn't it?"

"Well, yeah."

"Exactly," his father agrees. "I feel the same when I have a drink before our dinner."

"And that is what I don't understand."

"Have you ever drank?"

"Yes." Stiles looks away guiltily, because he's pretty sure his dad didn't know that.

Yet, he doesn't seem surprised or angry. "And how does it make you feel?"

"I don't know? Nice, I suppose? Peaceful?"

His dad gives him an expectant look, eyebrows upped.

Stiles blinks at him, but then it starts to click.

"Oh."

The Sheriff nods. "I don't drink to forget her, son. On the contrary, I remember her while I drink. It helps me to have peace with what has happened. I focus on the good memories and the buzz of the alcohol turns them into great ones."

Stiles purses his lips. "But doesn't that mean you actually haven't accepted that she's gone, except for when you're drunk?"

His dad sighs, shakes his head. He stares off into the nothingness in front of him. "Nah, it's not like that. It's just on that particular day." He rubs his forehead.

Stiles plays with the papers in front of him. "I think I get it..." he admits, voice low. "But it still doesn't explain why you get angry when I put her at our table."

"I'm not angry about it, son," his dad explains. "I'm worried, because it shows you haven't accepted that it's just the two of us."

A lump forms in Stiles' throat. He coughs. Tears sting behind his eyes. For the first time he sees the difference between his two rituals and it pains him. A veil drops around his heart and finally he realizes it's still broken. He's still bleeding. There aren't any scars on his heart, like his father's. There are just open wounds, covered up by twelve year old bandages.

Stiles sniffs. "I miss her so much, dad."

His father puts a comforting hand on his shoulder. Stiles grabs his wrist, pressing his cheek against the back of his dad's hand while tears rolls down on it. "I still can't believe she's gone."

"I know," the Sheriff whispers, blinking tears away himself. "I know, son."

They talk about it for the rest of the evening. At one point there is pizza and an hour later Stiles' crying has stopped. Slowly, quiet jokes and soft laughter fills the Stilinski household. Stiles' heart heals a little and he knows it's only the first step in a long process, but that's okay. Everything is going to be okay, because he can look at his dad and know that he's living proof. He can become his father. He can continue his annual ritual. But he can't continue to hurt. His mom wouldn't have wanted that either.

With that thought, Stiles goes to bed that Monday night. He pulls his shirt over his head, a faint scent of campfire and patrichor filling his nostrils, reminding him that he has someone to thank.

Which proves to be hard, when you don't have any contact details of someone. Stiles doesn't have Derek's phone number -- how could he have been so stupid to forget to ask? -- no address, no nothing. Much to his frustration, it even appears that Derek doesn't have an account on Facebook, Twitter or any other social media platform whatsoever. How was he supposed to find him? Just go by the woods and the old store every day? That's crazy! It's on the verge of stalker behaviour, even.

So Stiles does.

For the rest of the week, he stops by the two places after school. At the store, the woman keeps offering him cups of chamomile tea. Her warm smile makes Stiles think she appreciates the company, so he takes the cup from her every time. And every time the woman comments, "It calms you down." Stiles doesn't know why she thinks that he needs to be calmed down, but he doesn't say anything about it. Maybe his restless leg makes her think he's stressed. Or maybe it's because he keeps looking up at the door each time it opens. Or maybe he's just huffing out too many disappointed breaths.

It's a little before five in the afternoon when Stiles finishes his drink. He puts the orange cup down on the table, staring into its emptiness. Six days, and still no sign of Derek. Stiles looks up at the picture-frame plastered wall. At least coming here won’t seem like a total waste; he can say he has done it for his mother.

His eyes glide over the polaroids, but he's not really looking at them. Coming to think of it, Stiles has never found that any of the pictures pop out at him. Shouldn't there be one that spoke to him? You know, like art does to people. Out of the hundred pictures on the wall, shouldn't one inspire him?

He squints his eyes. Then he tilts his head. He tries to go through them from left to right, top to bottom; he looks at every single one of them, but none are standing out to him. Maybe the universe is trying to tell him something. Maybe he shouldn't look for Derek. Maybe Stiles is just being silly. They had met just twice, and only the second time had they had an actual conversation, and even then Stiles did most of the talking. He likes to think he has left an impression on the guy, but maybe he hasn’t. Maybe Derek has already forgotten about him. Maybe he thinks of him as just some nosy, whiny kid that's looking for a therapist.

Or maybe there's no such force as the universe and it's just plain coincidence that he hasn't run into Derek yet.

Stiles chews on his bottom lip, stretching out his body. His shirt is creeping up a little and he can feel the cold rush of air on his stomach when the door opens again. He flashes a look, but grumbles when he is, yet again, disappointed.

This is stupid. He should go. He should let fate take its course. If he's meant to run into Derek, he will again. If he isn't, then that's fine, too.

He gets up, gaze lingering on the wall for a last time. Then, when he's about to leave, he catches a glimpse of a yellow rectangle. It causes Stiles to turn back around, to take a second look. He moves closer to the wall.

It's a picture of a book that has a sticky note poking out from it. There's writing on it in black ink, but only half, so Stiles can't make out what it says.

An idea pops up into his head. It's unexpected, almost physically startling him as ideas tend to do. He takes off his backpack and unzips it. A piece of paper and a pen come flying out of it and Stiles practically runs back to the table. He scribbles something down on it in his best handwriting. He checks it three times, seeing if it's correct. With a satisfied smile he looks at it, moving over to a bookshelf near the entrance of the store, and looks for what he's trying to find. It takes him some time -- he needs to read all the titles -- but then he finds the book Derek had been reading the other day: “Detailed Scenery Painting”. He opens the first page, putting the note inside and making sure a bit of it is sticking out.

A heroic feeling washes over him as he leaves the store. Sure, he should let fate run its course, but that doesn't mean he can't give it a little push in the right direction.

It's safe to say Stiles spends the rest of his weekend watching his phone. Millions of times he checks if it's on. Then if it's not on silent mode. Then just because he forgets if he has just checked it or not.

And finally, on Sunday, it goes off. His hands are trembling, heart throbbing in his chest when he grabs it from his desk.

It's Scott.

Stiles tries to hide his slight annoyance when he picks up. "Hey, man. What's up?"

"I have to tell you something."

The tone in Scott's voice makes Stiles sit up straight. His eyebrows furrow and he replies, "What is it?"

"My dad is in town."

Stiles' eyes widen. "What? What do you-? Why? Why? Why is he here? Have you-?"

"No, I haven't seen him. Mom just told me," Scott explains. "I just... I don't know. I wanted to tell you, because...because...I don't know."

Stiles nods, pursing his lips together. "You don't know what to do."

"No, I don't," Scott sighs. "I mean, it's been what? Ten years? Should I go see him? Do I have to?"

"Well, don't you want to?" Stiles wonders, frown deepening on his face. He shifts on his chair.

"I do..." Scott answers, but it doesn't sound very convincing. "...But I also don't."

Stiles' stomach churns, but he isn't surprised. He doesn't need to ask himself why, he already knows. The nauseating feeling comes with jealousy.

"What do you think?" Scott asks, a result of the silence that has lasted a little too long.

"Honestly..." Stiles breathes. "...I think you have a chance to meet your dad, who you haven't seen for a long time." He hesitates. "And I think others can only wish for a chance like that."

Another silence falls.

"Right. I'm sorry, man, I didn't want to make you feel-"

"It's okay. Really," Stiles says. "Our situations are totally different. I get it."

"Yeah..."

The air around Stiles feels heavy when he and Scott stay quiet for a while. The only sound coming through the phone is Scott's breathing, telling Stiles the line hasn't gone dead or anything.

"I think I'm gonna go see him."

Stiles smiles a little. "That's great, dude."

Scott hums. "Thank you, Stiles. I really didn't mean to-"

"I know you didn't. It's fine."

"I can come over?"

Stiles rolls his eyes, but he smiles. "Nah, I'm studying anyway," he lies.

"Alright then. See you at school tomorrow?"

"Sure thing."

Stiles hangs up and allows the air to leave his lungs. The world can be so unfair sometimes, he already knew that, but the reminder of it still sucks.

His eyes flicker back to his phone next to him. Apparently fate's priorities lie with Scott at the moment. And Scott is Stiles' best friend, but nonetheless it's unfair. Scott gets his long lost father and Stiles can't even get a phone call from a stranger. He even starts feeling stupid for putting all his faith into sticking a note into a book. What are the chances of Derek finding that note? One in a hundred? A thousand? A million?

As that awareness sinks in, Stiles' feet are on the ground again. It's sunny above the clouds, but the rain is wearing him down, sticking him to the inevitable dirt of his misfortune. It's sad, depressing and Stiles wants to go to the woods.

He drives there. Stiles' dad didn't even have a chance to ask him where he was going, that's how eager Stiles was to leave the house. He needs a whiff of fresh air, most preferably mixed with the smell of burning wood from a campfire.

The wind is howling through the trees. Mud is glueing itself on his shoes. Stiles' hair is heavy and wet from the rain, but somehow it's refreshing. As if nature's trying to cleanse him; trying to shower off his guilt. It makes Stiles feel a little better, standing with his toes inches away from the shore. The water is slamming against the edge, spilling onto the grass and over Stiles' shoes every so often. At least the lake understands how he feels. How can it not? After all the memories he has fed it…

He spreads his arms wide as if he's offering himself towards the dark clouds.

Then the wind brings a happy tune to his ears. For a second Stiles tries to make out what bird would sing such an odd melody, but then he realizes it's his ringtone going off.

He attempts to dry his hands on the inside of his shirt, which is covered under his jacket. The clothing dampens and his upper body shivers when it comes into contact with his skin.

"Hello?" he asks when he has retrieved his phone from his pocket.

"Stiles?"

Stiles looks up.

"Derek?"

"Where are you? You're cracking."

"Outside," Stiles answers a little embarrassed.

"You do know it's pouring, right?"

Stiles bites his lip. "Yes..." he mumbles.

"Come to the coffee place," Derek says. There's a tone in his voice Stiles can't quite track, but it forces him to obey.

"Okay."

And, just like that, Derek kills the connection. Stiles stares at his phone for a beat. A smile creeps around his lips and he makes a little jump. He even starts hiccuping.

"Thank you!" he shouts to the sky, before taking off. He practically runs back to his jeep, slipping a couple of times in the process.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles Stilinski is a student at Beacon High who was only five years old when his mother passed away, leaving him and his father, the Sheriff, alone. With a wall covered in pictures of her, Stiles ventures to the lake where she died every Thanksgiving to remember his mother.  
> But one day, when he’s seventeen years old, he meets a guy there; one who's mysterious and silent. His leather jacket hugs his upper body as he stares out across the lake, and Stiles tries to make contact, but the stranger ignores him. He only says his name when Stiles is about to leave. “Derek”.  
> Stiles has never had this happen to him, but he can’t get the name out of his head. What was this man doing there, at that lake full of memories, and how might his presence affect Stiles’ grief?

By the time he's walking into the store, the dirt on his hands has dried and his hair is a mess. He stands on his tiptoes, poking his head around the bookshelf. A wide grin spreads across his face when he sees Derek sitting at one of the tables.

"Hi!" he cheers, shooting a silly wave. He almost trips over his own feet as he walks up to the guy, who is eying him with a weird look.

"What happened to you?" Derek scoffs.

Stiles shrugs. He tries to be casual, but knows it's sounding stupid when he admits, "Just went out to the woods for a bit."

Derek's eyebrows furrow, but then he nods slowly, as if he has just accepted that Stiles is weird as hell. "I see," he says.

Stiles feels his cheeks heat up. He slips out of his coat before he sits down next to Derek. Stiles is about to ask why Derek called, but the old woman is already trotting up to them with two steaming mugs. Then, Stiles recognizes his note, lying in front of them.

"You found my note!" he exclaims, pointing at it with excitement, because, hell, who thought his plan would've worked?

In the meantime the owner of the store puts down the cups; one filled with black coffee, for Derek, who replies, "I didn't really find it. She gave it to me." He nods to the lady.

Stiles looks up at her in surprise while she puts down the tea in front of him. "Calms you down," she says. But this time, it's followed by a wink and Stiles beams at her.

"So why did you leave your number?" Derek asks when she has taken off.

"Because I wanted to thank you," Stiles answers, folding his mud covered hands around the cup.

Derek's eyebrows shoot up and it's the first time Stiles has seen him surprised.

"Thank me for what?"

"Well, I made peace with my dad. And I have to say I get him now, because he explained it and, you know, that was because of you. Because of our conversation from the other day. I mean, that's why I talked to him. So, yeah, thank you," Stiles explains a little rushed. Derek keeps glaring at him with this look that makes Stiles want to put his hands over Derek's eyes. He reverts his attention back to his mug, where the dirt from his hands have now soiled the sides.

Derek's staying quiet for too long and Stiles' shoes are rubbing against each other in nervous anticipation, so he adds, "Besides, you said we can be friends."

"And friends leave friends notes with their phone numbers on them?"

"Well, yeah," Stiles replies, scratching the China. "No, maybe not. I don't know." He fills his cheeks with air before looking up. "Can't you just-"

Derek's grinning at him. Oh my God, Derek is grinning.

"You were just teasing me, weren't you?"

"Yup," Derek answers, taking a sip from his coffee.

Stiles blushes. "Right."

"Anyway, I'm glad you and your dad are okay again," Derek admits.

"Thanks," Stiles mutters. "Me too."

"And how are you?"

"What do you mean?" Stiles looks up.

"How are you dealing with his explanation?"

"I get it now. I do," Stiles answers, nodding along with his words. "I get that he's just worried that I haven't accepted her death."

"Have you?"

Stiles freezes. He knows Derek thinks he hasn't. His body heats up and he can feel his throat closing up. An uncomfortable lump rises to the surface and he tries to swallow it. "I... I, err..." he stammers, voice barely a whisper. "...No." It's the first time he's admitting it out loud.

A drop of water frees itself from his hair and runs down his spine, making him shiver.

Derek notices it and examines him for a bit. "You really need a shower."

Stiles frowns. "Thanks, I know," he replies, voice dripping with sarcasm, because it's quite rude to just change the subject like that.

"Wanna go to my place?"

"W-What?" Stiles says, dumbstruck.

"Do you want to go to my place?" Derek repeats.

"What? Like, as in, go to your house?"

Derek chuckles. "Yes, Stiles, to my loft."

It's the first time Derek speaks his name in real life and the sound of it rings in Stiles' ears. The shells of them are buzzing and it's like Stiles is listening to music with his headphones in. It vibrates through his skull, and his mouth is hanging open and he doesn't even notice it.

"You there?" Derek wonders.

"Yes!" Stiles exclaims, shaking his head as he snaps back to reality. "Yes, I'm here." He closes his eyes in a painful manner. "I mean, yes, I want to go to your place."

Derek nods, finishing his coffee. He gets up, swinging his leather jacket on in the process. "Do you drive?"

"I-I do," Stiles answers. His heart is pounding against his ribcage. With trembling hands he slips on his own coat and follows Derek outside. He manages to thank the woman as they do. Her only response being a gentle smile.

Stiles' fingers are drumming on the steering wheel as he follows Derek's directions. It appears that he doesn't live too far from the shop, which is logical, since he walks everywhere.

They stop in front of a big building and Stiles takes a minute to text his dad, saying he won't be back until later. Instantly, the Sheriff asks where he'll be and Stiles just replies with 'at a friend's house'. Which isn't a lie, but not entirely the truth either, since his new friend is much older and they haven't known each other for that long.

"Bathroom's upstairs," Derek indicates as he slides the big door shut behind them.

Stiles nods, but is still mesmerized by the room. There are paintings scattered all around it, on easels or just against the huge window, paint brushes on the floor. It's a big open space with a double bed in the corner. The navy blue sheets on it are messy, and on the other side of the room is a sofa. It looks comfy. Either way, Stiles' first impression isn't that Derek likes to clean up.

Yet, he asks, "Do you live here by yourself?"

"I do," Derek nods. He looks like he's about to add something, but then his voice dies away.

Stiles scrapes his feet against the floor. He notices mud is coming off of them and he quickly starts untying his laces. "Sorry," he mumbles in the meantime.

"It's okay," Derek says. "But go upstairs before you rub your dirt into any more of my stuff."

Now Stiles does know Derek's joking, so he laughs. It's quite ironic, given his messy habitat.

He goes upstairs and finds the bathroom. The large shower catches his eye and Stiles hesitates for a moment, but then he decides to just wash up. Taking a shower in someone's house feels a little too personal; you know, being naked in an unfamiliar environment and all.

The water feels warm in his hands. He rinses them with soap, examining himself in the mirror afterwards. His hair still looks messy, but it's presentable, and he doesn't know why he checks his teeth, but they're clean.

"Are you allowed to drink?" Derek asks when Stiles comes downstairs again. He's rummaging through a small refrigerator.

"I'm not. But I do," Stiles answers honestly.

Derek frowns and looks back over his shoulder at him. "How old are you?"

"Seventeen."

Derek doesn't look surprised. In fact, Stiles can't read any expressions from his face, so he's left wondering what Derek thinks of that.

"You?"

"Twenty four."

"Oh, wow," Stiles replies. Derek gives him a judgemental look and Stiles shies away, rubbing his neck. "Not that I... I didn't mean..." he stutters.

"Coke or water?"

Stiles' head falls forward. "Coke, please."

Derek rises up from his crouched position and hands Stiles the can. He has taken a beer himself.

Stiles opens the can and quietly sips from it, looking around the room. "So, you really are a painter, huh?"

"I guess so," Derek answers with a shrug. He doesn't look too impressed by his own work.

Stiles’ gaze begins strolling down the different paintings. One by the window catches his eye and he points at it, looking back at Derek, who is walking up to him. "Hey, that's the spot, isn't it? The one where we first met."

Derek nods. "It is. I just finished it this week."

"Awesome," Stiles compliments, bending forward and looking more closely. It's very detailed, and Stiles' fondness of it is genuine. "Is that why you were at the lake the other day?"

The silence holds steady for a beat, but then Derek confirms, "Yes."

Stiles nods, passing canvasses as he steps through the 'gallery'. He stops again at quite a dark painting. There's a lot of black, grey and red. It's scary, even. Stiles takes a step backwards, bumping into Derek. His eyes widen and he looks behind himself with shock. "Sorry." He didn't notice Derek was so close behind him. The ghost of Derek's chest against his back remains a little longer than Stiles intends for it to.

He takes another chug from his drink. "So what's this?" he wonders, gesturing at the painting. "From your dark period or something?" He laughs at his own joke.

"You could say that," Derek answers. "It's my family's house when it burned down."

A loud coughing sounds through the room and Stiles tries to pull himself together. "Are you.... Oh my God, I am so sorry, I didn't know-"

"I know you didn't."

Stiles gapes at him. "Did they...?"

"I was out at the grocery store. It happened when I was gone. When I came back I saw the house was up in flames, so much already that I couldn't go in and save them."

Stiles swallows, not knowing what to say.

Derek stares at the painting for a while longer. The whole situation is making Stiles uncomfortable, yet he can't help but feel a little humbled that Derek finally shared something personal. It makes Stiles feel like less of a train wreck.

"So I get what you're going through," Derek breaks the silence after turning to Stiles.

The boy nods, still flabbergasted. It's such a weird moment. Derek has this hard look on his face that's somehow also comforting. Stiles wants to rub the back of his hand against his cheek, to trail his finger along the strong jawline. He wants to feel the roughness of that scruff, and suddenly his feet are lifting off the ground again. The atmosphere between them is delicate; tense and fragile, like shards of glass. Stiles can either caress the smoothness or cut himself on the edges. Derek's eyes are piercing through his, and it's still raining outside, but Stiles is watching the rainbows shine.

He doesn't dare to move as Derek kills the distance between them by taking a step forward. All of the oxygen is sucked from his lungs when Derek's warm hand palms his cheek. His thumb rubs the place right under Stiles' left eye, and Stiles feels like he's about to burst out of his skin from the nervousness.

"You missed some," Derek says, shattering the tension. He rubs the dirt from Stiles' cheek.

Stiles is sure he is about to faint. His knees feel wobbly and his heart beat is racing at a hundred miles an hour.

"Oh..." he breathes, before clearing his throat. "Thanks."

He moves away from Derek's touch. He needs air, because he's pretty sure he will suffocate staying so close to the guy. It's all so weird. Stiles has never felt that way before.

He goes over to sit on the sofa.

"So, have you, you know, accepted it?" he asks.

"A little," Derek answers, sitting down next to Stiles.

Stiles nods, eyes squinting a little. "How long has it been?"

"Eleven years."

Stiles rests his head against the back of the couch. There's a humming sound in the back of his throat and he allows himself to let the information sink in. His mind takes him back to his earlier conversation with Scott, and Stiles doesn't think too much into it, but he just starts talking.

"My best friend, Scott," he begins. "His dad ran out on him and his mom when he was young."

"Hmhm."

"He called me today and told me his dad's back in town."

"Really?"

"Yeah," Stiles sighs. "He wasn't sure if he wanted to see him and I just..." He pauses. "I guess I was just offended, you know? Because he finally has the chance to build a relationship with his dad and he isn't even sure about taking it. While I... I would give everything to have another day with my mom."

"You're jealous," Derek finishes his story for him. His elbows are resting on his knees, his back hunched forward, but neck twisted so that he can still look at Stiles.

"I am," Stiles confesses, ashamed of himself. Even though he already knew he was.

Derek nods, drinking his beer. "You need to realize that your stories aren't the same."

"I know! I know, I do, but still, I just can't help it."

"You feel like your story is worse."

"X marks the spot," Stiles huffs. "And I feel so guilty for that."

"You can't compare pain," Derek states. "Because everyone experiences it differently. Scott is hurting as well and, I'm sorry, but you're kind of a bad friend if you think he shouldn't complain."

"I know, I-"

"It would be the same..." Derek ignores Stiles. "...As me telling you to man up. Because you've only lost your mother and I've lost my entire family. Wouldn't that be unfair?"

Stiles nods. "It would be. I know that."

"Do you really, though?"

Stiles frowns. He intensifies the hold on his can. "I do," he says with a determined undertone.

"If you say so."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing. I just think that you wouldn't be feeling guilty if you’ve accepted that you're jealous. You know, if you've accepted that life is unfair."

"Trust me," Stiles fires back. "I know life's unfair." He sits up more. "I realize it every day. Whenever I see children and their parents, I think, why can't I have that? What makes them deserve it more than I do? And then I can't think of anything."

"And you're left with the empty fact that, sometimes, things are just the way they are."

"Exactly..." Stiles mutters, staring up at Derek.

Their conversation dies away, leaving Stiles with the thought that it's so nice to be able to talk to someone who knows what he's going through. It's nurturing; proof that he isn't the only person in this world that feels how he does. That feeling this way is normal, and that he shouldn't blame himself for it.

It's all about acceptance.

And, looking at Derek, Stiles wonders if he feels the same way. He hopes he does. He wants Derek to feel like Stiles is feeling right now. And Stiles wants to be the person granting him that. He wants to mean something to Derek. Just because Derek already means a lot to him.

"So is painting, like, your job or just a way to deal with your grief?" Stiles decides to change the subject a little.

"Both,"Derek answers. "I started drawing when I was young, and I just kept doing it. After the fire my passion grew, so I continued to do it. I keep most of my work, but I do sell some of them."

Stiles looks around the loft. "You must ask a lot for them, then. You know, since you live in quite a big house."

Derek laughs. "Not really. My family was quite wealthy, so after their passing, well..."

"You inherited all of it? Wow," Stiles says, impressed. "That must have brought at least some of a silver lining to it all, huh?"

Derek shoots Stiles a judgemental look. The boy cringes.

"Sorry. I don't know why I said that," Stiles apologizes. He seriously needs to turn his social filter back on. "Do you have anything to remember them by? Or was everything lost in the fire?"

"It was. I just have my memories."

"What kind of memories?"

Derek sighs. "Of my mother, cooking dinner, forcing all of us to help set the table. It was a big house, and we had this huge dining room. When we had all sat down, my father would talk about his day at work to my mom and my sister and I would comment on it. You know, repeat their words, pull silly faces. It always made my parents laugh, didn't annoy them at all. It was nice."

"Normal," Stiles chips in with a crooked smile. "Yeah, somehow it's the little things that stay with you." He chuckles. "I remember my mom and dad fighting each other once; you know, fooling around. At some point I jumped in, pushing their knees, screaming 'to battle!' at them. Until I found out men have this particular spot that really hurts when you hit them there..."

"Ouch..."

"Yeah," Stiles smirks. "Dad wanted to kill me, but I caught my mom snickering behind her hand."

Derek perks up. "I remember one time my sister and I went to play hide and seek around the house. After a while of it being just the two of us, we got bored, so we decided that if he hid really well, our parents would eventually come out and play with us..."

Derek sounds so excited as he recalls the memories... Stiles is enjoying the sight of it, revelling in the moment as he continues to stay quiet.

"...After a while they did. Not because they wanted to play, but because they were worried sick. It was horrible, my sister and I were laughing our butts off in the attic. It took them two hours to find us." He laughs. The sound echoes through the loft, scattering off the walls. "Let me tell you, I've never been hugged so tight while also getting shouted at."

Stiles laughs. "Sounds like you and your sister were the worst."

"We really were," Derek scoffs.

"See, I'm an only child. I didn't have any partners in crime. I was just left spoiled and taken everywhere."

"But that's nice as well, isn't it?"

"No! No, let me tell you," Stiles demands, still laughing. He scoots closer to Derek. "One time, I was at the supermarket with my mom. When we left, this guy came up to her and they started talking. I didn't really pay attention to them. So, at one point, my mom turns back to me and says that we're going to see my dad at work and that we're going there in a real police car. I seriously thought that we were just going on a tour at the police station or something and I spent three hours colouring there."

Derek's laughter interrupts Stiles' story, but he continues, "Turns out my mom had tried to shoplift something! She had to take her child to the police station because she had committed a felony! Can you imagine how furious my dad was? He's the Sheriff!"

At this point, Derek's almost slumping off the couch, that's how hard he's laughing. "That is great," he manages to voice in between chuckling fits.

Stiles nods. "I know, right?"

Their laughter dies and Derek's sniffing, rubbing his face. "Man, that was good."

"Thank you, thank you," Stiles says, taking a little bow. He finishes his Coke. Derek does the same with his beer.

"I'm glad you wrote that note for me," he suddenly admits.

Stiles' face lights up. "I'm glad you called," he returns the gesture. He can feel his heart beating in his chest once again. "This is fun."

Derek catches his gaze and Stiles feels like a deer caught in headlights, suddenly unable to move. "It really is..." Derek's voice is low, words sliding towards Stiles and clouding his mind. A boost of confidence shoots through his body, because in that moment he's sure he's making Derek feel like Derek makes him feel. It's exciting, the best achievement ever, like, the most fulfilling of fulfilments. It's awesome.

But then a text from his dad kills it all.

"I need to go, my dad wants me home for dinner," he announces, disappointment clear on his face. He starts putting his shoes back on.

"That's okay," Derek says, getting up.

Stiles mimics his movement. "We could meet up again some other time?" he offers, following Derek to the door. "You know, if you want to."

"Sure." Derek gives him a single nod. "I'll just call you."

Stiles beams up at him, all bright and childish, lips parted a little. "Yes! Exactly!"

"Great."

"Yeah..."

Derek opens the door, but their eyes linger on each other. Stiles can't look away, because he's on a mission to define every colour of the rainbow he now sees. They can hear the rain outside hitting the pavement.

"I really should go."

"You should."

"...Right."

Stiles is sure he has stopped breathing, and he really has to leave, but his feet are stuck to the ground and his legs won't give in.

"Bye."

"See you later."

Stiles counts to three and then uses all of his willpower to turn around and step out into the rain. He looks back one more time, flashing a last smile. "Bye."

Derek chuckles, shaking his head. "Bye."

For the umpteenth time that day, Stiles' hair is getting wet, so he jogs to the haven of his jeep. Once positioned in the driver's seat he looks up to Derek's front door one more time, only to find the man’s still there. He nods at him, and Stiles starts blushing, just like he did when Derek first spoke his name to him.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles Stilinski is a student at Beacon High who was only five years old when his mother passed away, leaving him and his father, the Sheriff, alone. With a wall covered in pictures of her, Stiles ventures to the lake where she died every Thanksgiving to remember his mother.  
> But one day, when he’s seventeen years old, he meets a guy there; one who's mysterious and silent. His leather jacket hugs his upper body as he stares out across the lake, and Stiles tries to make contact, but the stranger ignores him. He only says his name when Stiles is about to leave. “Derek”.  
> Stiles has never had this happen to him, but he can’t get the name out of his head. What was this man doing there, at that lake full of memories, and how might his presence affect Stiles’ grief?

Inspired by his conversation with Derek, Stiles doesn't hesitate walking up to Scott at school the next day.

"Dude, I'm sorry for being so bitter the other day. I support you, whatever you decide to do with your dad. Sure, I'm jealous, like, really jealous, but you're still my best friend, and I think you gotta do what you gotta do," he apologizes.

Scott blinks at him, lips parted in obvious surprise. Then, the brightest smile ever curls around the corners of his lips. The hallways at Beacon High are crowded with students.

"Thanks, man," he says, patting Stiles on the shoulder. "And I'm sorry for putting it on you. I should have been more...you know." He shies away a little, before straightening his back. "I should have been more considerate."

Stiles gives him a single nod, not wanting to continue the conversation past that point. Fortunately, Scott knows they're good, and moves up next to Stiles before bumping his head against his shoulder, like a cat angling for attention. Stiles scoffs, ruffling Scott's hair.

"So do you still wanna go see him?" Stiles asks as they walk to their class.

"Yeah," Scott answers. And this time it sounds more definite. "I thought about it a lot yesterday, and I figured I could at least hear him out, you know?"

"What does he do now anyway?"

"Mom said he's an FBI agent," Scott answers, gaze averted towards the floor.

"Impressive."

"I guess so."

Stiles chews on his tongue. Supposedly, talking about it still makes the both of them feel awkward.

His attention is pulled to his phone when he feels it vibrate in his pocket.

"What's your favourite animal?" - Derek

Stiles raises an eyebrow, figuring that Derek wants to play some stupid game of 20 Questions.

"Fox. Favourite food?" - Stiles

"What are you smiling at?" Scott interrupts his texting.

Stiles scratches the back of his neck. "Derek."

Scott frowns. "What? The guy from the woods? Are you seeing him?"

"What do you mean, 'seeing him'?" Stiles fires back in a defensive tone.

"Well, you have his number, right?"

"Yeah, so?"

"Where did you see him?"

Stiles huffs out a breath. "At this store my mom used to go to."

Scott nods, continuing to stare at his friend, deep suspicion rooted in his eyes. "Did you ask for his number?"

"Not exactly..." Stiles can feel his blood rushing into his ears, heating them.

"Then how'd you get it?"

"...I might have left it in a book he was reading," the explanation sounds suspicious.

Scott's jaw drops an inch. Here comes that smile again, and Stiles knows he's fucked.

"Dude, are you crushing on him?"

Stiles' body freezes, the boy stopping dead in his tracks and looking back at Scott with an offended look. "What? Of course not! I mean, he's old."

"How old?"

"Twenty four."

"Really? Wow."

"I know."

"Old guys can be hot, though."

"Dude!" Stiles flings his arm, hitting Scott's upper arm. The guys giggles, actually giggles, sticking out the tip of his tongue playfully.

"What? I'm just saying, love knows no age."

"Yeah, yeah, I know. Scott McCall, all round supporter of the romantics."

"You know it."

Stiles' phone vibrates again. He has the message up on the screen in a heartbeat.

"Spinach. Favourite movie?" - Derek

"What's he saying? Are you guys planning a date? Dude, you should totally meet him in the woods again. You know, you can, like, renew your spot and make it yours, like, of the two of you."

"I will hit you again if you don't shut up."

"That's disgusting. Gone Girl. Favourite book?" - Stiles

"Detailed Scenery Painting." - Derek

Stiles' heart skips a beat, because he knows that book, but also because Derek didn't ask a question back. He's focusing on his own answer, which could indicate that he wants Stiles to do the same.

And, oh my God, it's the book Stiles put his phone number in and -- oh my God -- is Derek flirting with him?

Scott's laughter manages to save him from his potential panic attack. "Dude, your face is, like, beetroot red. What happened?"

"I-I..." Stiles stammers, "I think he just flirted with me."

There's that smile again.

For the rest of the day, Stiles can't focus in any of his classes. He keeps trying to think of something clever to reply to that last text with, but his mind is drawing blanks. In the end, during his last period, he just sends back an "Oh", which is surely the most pointless response in the history of responses. Could it be that Derek really liked him? And, if so, could Stiles really like him back? He's pretty sure he can't, because Derek likes spinach, and Stiles can't possibly like someone who likes spinach.

Scott's teasing words also keep playing through his mind and when Stiles is in bed that night, he's missing his mom again. Somehow he thinks she would know what to do. Even though fate robbed him of time to get to know her better, he can picture how the conversation would go.

"Mom, I think this guy likes me."

"Well, that's great, sweetie," she would say, smiling while she adjusts some of the settings on her camera. "Do you like him?"

"I'm not sure. I like talking to him and...and I guess he's kinda good looking?"

They're in the woods. It's a beautiful day; rays of sunlight are warming Stiles' face, forcing him to narrow his eyes against the glare. His mother looks like an angel when he hides in her shadow.

She turns to look down at him. "Why don't you go find out if you like him, then?" she offers with a sincere smile. A smile only mothers can grant.

"But how would I know?"

His mom crouches down. The palm of her hand finds Stiles' cheek and she brushes her thumb across the blush she finds there. "You will," she assures him, a sincere look in her eyes. Her hand trails down his small chest, covering his ribcage. "You will feel it. Right here." She presses lightly on the spot where Stiles' young heart is beating. Then she stands back up again, taking Stiles' hand in hers.

"Mom? Why are you gone?"

She's staring across the lake. It's silent for a moment. The only sound reaching their ears is the soft breeze rustling through the leaves. A strand of her brown hair lifts up with it. "Sometimes..." she says, "...good things have to make room for other good things to happen."

"Like what?"

"You'll find out, sweetie."

Stiles wakes up. His body shivers and he licks his dry lips. His room is dark, and he's still wearing his clothes, phone in hand.

The light of the screen is blinding when he unlocks it.

"Are you free tomorrow night?" - Stiles

The reply takes only seconds.

"Sure. Come over." - Derek

At first he's surprised Derek is still up at this hour, but his face heating up distracts him.

Stiles' nerves cause him to reveal all of his evening plans to Scott, which he instantly regrets. The guy is all jokes; creating awkward possibilities and adding cliché after cliché. Lunch arrives, and Scott’s soon filled Lydia in too, the two revelling in Stiles' embarrassment. According to her, he should wear cologne, and a sleeveless shirt, covered by a button up shirt which he shouldn't button up, along with his tightest jeans. The surge of information causes Stiles to overthink his every move -- as if he hadn't been doing that already -- and by the time he arrives at Derek's loft later that day, he's trembling.

After coming to the decision that it's maybe just a little weird if he texts Derek that he's here, he knocks. The door slides open seconds later, and so does Stiles' mouth, because Derek is wearing this tight wife beater and, wow.

"Hey, come on in," he greets Stiles, flashing his white teeth.

Stiles nods, stepping inside. He doesn't have to take off his shoes this time, because they're clean. More than clean; he put them in the washing machine this afternoon. Not his best idea, because now his socks are wet. He shouldn't listen to Lydia.

"Drink?" Derek offers, already at the fridge.

"Yes." Stiles hesitates on what he wants for a minute, but then he decides, to hell with it. "A beer." He's sure he'll die of a heart attack if he can’t calm down, but it doesn’t seem very Derek-like for him to have any chamomile tea to hand. That means that alcohol is the next best thing.

Derek looks surprised, but he doesn't say anything. Instead, he opens the bottle for Stiles and hands it to him. The glass makes a clinging sound when Derek toasts him and as a reflex, Stiles catches Derek's gaze.

Which is a stupid move, because Stiles still doesn't know how Derek’s eyes can reflect so many colours, and now he can't look away. Even when he takes a sip of his beer, he can't look away.

"So how have you been?" Derek asks.

Stiles wonders if they're going to be standing for the rest of the evening. "Good. I've been good." He clears his throat. "You? How... How have you... Been?"

"Tired," Derek answers.

Stiles frowns.

"I've been working on this painting all night," Derek explains. He turns around, and moves to a corner of the room. Stiles follows him.

"It's still wet, so don't touch it," the guy warns him, adjusting the angle of the painting so Stiles can see it.

Stiles' heart drops. His lips part and he wants to say something, but nothing comes out. It's a very detailed profile of a young man. Stiles has to move closer to be completely sure it isn't a photograph. The guy is wearing a denim jacket, and his brown hair is short on the sides, but sticking up a bit on the top. His face is painted over by what seems to be the head of a fox.

And that's when Stiles realizes.

"Is that...?"

"Yup," Derek answers, a proud smirk spread across his face.

Stiles' body starts trembling again, because, wow, Derek painted him, which feels -- and he doesn't know exactly why -- very intimate. His heart rate picks up again. He didn't know it was possible to feel as nervous as he does. The air thickens around him, closing up his throat. Stiles is sure he's about to faint, but when Derek puts a hand on his shoulder, all that pressure fades.

"You like it?"

Stiles nods quickly. "It's really cool. Wow."

"Thanks. You can take it with you when it’s dry."

"No! No, no, no, that's okay. I'm good," Stiles declines the offer, waving his hand about theatrically. There’s no way in hell he’ll be able to explain this to his dad. They aren't artsy people, like, at all. His mom was, but they definitely aren't.

Derek doesn't look disappointed -- thank God -- he just shrugs it off.

Stiles stares at the painting for a moment longer, but then Derek demands his attention again.

"So what do you want to do?" he asks. "I figured we could watch a movie or something?"

Stiles swallows. Scott had asked what they were planning on doing, and he’d said something about watching a movie. You either watch a movie or you 'watch a movie'. And Stiles wasn't sure if he was up for the latter.

"Sure, movie sounds good," he obliges, unable to think of anything else they could do together. He decides that he’ll just take the far end of the couch.

But, when he sits himself down on the right hand side, Derek takes the middle!

Stiles cringes a little when the man sits down next to him. His organs feel like they're going to burst out of his body, but it's not like there's anywhere he can go.

Derek attempts to turn on the TV, but then examines Stiles from head to toe. "Did something happen to you?" he wonders.

"No. No, why... Why would you think that?" Stiles stutters.

"You're acting a little... odd."

Stiles gapes at him. "I'm not. I'm fine. Perfectly fine. Like, nothing's wrong. I'm good, man. We're good," Stiles rambles, before looking around the room. "Is it hot in here? Are you hot?"

"No. I'm fine," Derek chuckles. "Are you sure you're okay?"

"Yes!" Stiles squeaks. He rolls his eyes at his own behaviour. "Yes."

"Stiles."

"My friends said that this was a date, and I've never been on a date, so I'm kinda freaking out," he spills. His eyes widen when he hears his own words and he quickly covers his mouth. The beer in his hands spills from the bottle, over his shirt and Stiles curses under his quickened breath.

Derek laughs. "Calm down," he says, putting a hand on Stiles' knee.

The warmth of Derek's touch settles Stiles down a little and he nods, taking a few deep breaths. "Okay, I'm good."

Stiles can feel Derek squeezing him a couple of times. He tenses up again, but this time it's a different kind of tension. An exciting one. He's lost in Derek's eyes for a second time, now shifting through various shades of green. "I'm okay."

"What do you wanna watch?"

Stiles frowns. "I-I... I'm sorry, what?"

"Which movie do you wanna watch!" Derek exclaims, laughing. "Seriously, calm down."

Stiles blushes, just about managing to pull his stare away from Derek's face. "Oh," he sighs. "Well, what do you have?"

"Video on demand, so we can watch anything."

Stiles finally perks up. "Even Gone Girl?"

"Sure. I haven't seen it yet, so."

"Dude, you're gonna love it. It's such a psycho mindfuck. It's sick."

Derek grins while he looks for the movie. "Sounds good."

The first sequence rolls onto the screen and Derek sits back. Stiles watches him from the corner of his eyes, slumping down a little. His beer must be kicking in, because he can finally feel himself beccoming more relaxed.

Minutes later he's entirely focused on the movie. He even forgets where he is. How could he not? The movie's awesome.

Derek shifts a little and when their shoulders bump, Stiles becomes aware of his surroundings again. His first instinct is to move away, but instead he holds his breath, staying where he is.

The touch lingers, stabilizing itself in Stiles' very bones. The awkwardness of it disappears and it actually starts to feel quite nice. Stiles even starts to lean against Derek's body a little, and even though they're still wearing clothes and it's not skin on skin, the pressure is comforting. Scott and Lydia had hugged him countless times before, but Stiles had never noticed how good it felt. Sure, a hug always gives you a feeling of comfort and affection, but this time...this time it felt better. Ten times better. There's this anticipation-soaked weight in the air that makes the blood in Stiles' veins rush.

Derek moves again and Stiles completely loses any focus on the screen. Derek's arm lifts, draping itself around the back of the couch, yet simultaneously Stiles is leaning toward him, and before he can react, his head is pressed against Derek's chest.

Adrenaline blasts through his body, his chest tightening, and where he was at first was just holding his breath, he now feels like the world will fall apart if he exhales. He stays still, every muscle inside of him frozen as the woody scent reminiscent of a campfire infiltrates his nose.

"Don't be nervous," Derek whispers against his hair.

That's when the air slips from Stiles' lungs. Instantly, his body sinks deeper into the fabric of the sofa -- deeper into Derek. His stomach tickles, and for a second Stiles worries that the relaxed feeling he’s now experiencing will cause him to pee his pants.

Derek's arm sneaks around his shoulders. Stiles' every nerve axon is heightened, immediately noticing the comforting motion of Derek's thumb against him.

And the world is still here. The world is still here and Stiles has his head on Derek's chest. Derek's arm is around his shoulder and the apocalypse hasn't happened. Stiles is watching a movie with a guy who flirted with him and he's still alive. Hell, he's even better than alive. He didn't even need to finish his beer to feel the buzzing start within him, Derek's touch igniting a spark much more powerful than any effect alcohol could give him. It’s like a drug, taking Stiles to a higher place, way above the ground, where the sun is always shining.

So Stiles unfolds his hands from his lap and spreads his arm around Derek's stomach and... Wow, that feels tight. Awesome.

They stay in that position for the rest of the film. In the meantime, Stiles is thanking God, fate, and the universe for allowing him to think of a movie with a two and half hour runtime.

Regardless, he can't hold back time, Stiles realizing the inevitability when the credits finally roll up. This means he has to move, because the reason for their cuddling is over.

"That really was a good movie," Derek says while Stiles pushes himself off of him.

"Told you," Stiles replies, stretching his limbs.

"Yeah. You can pick the movie more often."

Stiles blushes, because that means there'll be at least a second time. He looks up and, seriously, Derek's always watching him. His blush deepens, because now he's looking into the eyes of the guy he was using as a pillow just a minute ago. It's tense, and mesmerizing, and it makes his fingers twitch.

"I need to go." He blurts it out without thinking.

Derek looks surprised for a second, but it's gone as quickly as it had appeared.

"Oh, yeah, sure. School night and all."

"Yep," Stiles agrees, standing up. He straightens out his clothes, and he doesn't want to go, but he also needs some fresh air. And he needs to tell Scott about what has happened.

Derek walks him to the door.

"I'll see you soon, yeah?" Stiles mumbles, sliding the door open. He attempts to step out.

Suddenly, Derek's fingers are around his wrist. "Stiles," he calls him back.

Stiles turns around, and even when it's dark outside he sees rainbows.

Derek shortens the distance between them, his face moving closer and closer to Stiles. The younger boy hesitates for a split second, but his curiosity as to what's about to happen wins out. Derek's nose brushes against his and then their lips do the same thing. In the midst of his scruff, Stiles had never expected to find a place so velvety soft. The grip around his wrist tightens as their mouths move against each other. It's a simple kiss, nothing too sloppy or too deep, but it's so incredibly special. Stiles' skin is burning as his heart ignites into a thousand splendid fireflies, each fluttering through his body. They cloud his mind, killing every thought whilst simultaneously blossoming into life, creating something new. Something Stiles wants to latch himself onto. Something he wants to float away with, way up above the clouds.

When Derek moves away, Stiles expects the feeling to end abruptly, but it doesn't. It survives. It sticks. It's wrapping around his heart and he's healing.

His open wounds are finally scarring.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles Stilinski is a student at Beacon High who was only five years old when his mother passed away, leaving him and his father, the Sheriff, alone. With a wall covered in pictures of her, Stiles ventures to the lake where she died every Thanksgiving to remember his mother.  
> But one day, when he’s seventeen years old, he meets a guy there; one who's mysterious and silent. His leather jacket hugs his upper body as he stares out across the lake, and Stiles tries to make contact, but the stranger ignores him. He only says his name when Stiles is about to leave. “Derek”.  
> Stiles has never had this happen to him, but he can’t get the name out of his head. What was this man doing there, at that lake full of memories, and how might his presence affect Stiles’ grief?

Once back home he runs up to his room, passing his dad on the stairs, who throws him a confused look. He decides against asking, shaking his head.

"Dude, we kissed," Stiles exclaims as soon as Scott picks up his phone. He's still panting from his run up the stairs.

"You did?!" Scott sounds surprised. "Well, you don't let an opportunity pass by, do you?" He chuckles.

"Shut up. It wasn't planned. He just kissed me after we watched a movie."

Scott bursts into laughter. "You actually watched a movie?"

"We did. And no, not in that way," Stiles comments, rolling his eyes.

"Did anything happen?"

"He hugged me...sort of."

"You cuddled?"

Stiles sighs. "Yes, we cuddled." It sounds so childish.

"Awh," Scott swoons through the phone.

Another eye roll.

"Dude, shut up, okay? I'm already kissing and telling, don't you think I feel enough like a teenager who has just started puberty already?"

Scott laughs again. "How was it?"

"It was..." Stiles thinks about it for a second. "...It was awesome. Like, really awesome."

"So you like him?"

"I don't know."

"How can you cuddle and kiss him and still not know if you like him?" Scott wonders, disbelief sounding through his tone.

"Well, how do I know if I do like him?"

A short silence falls on the other end of the line. "Do you wanna kiss him again?"

"Well, yeah... I guess... But that could mean it's just physical, right?"

"Sure, but that's also a part of liking someone..." Scott hums. "Do you miss him, like, right now?"

"Duh," Stiles answers. "He's nice to be around, you know, to talk to and stuff. But that doesn't mean anything. I mean, I have that with you as well."

"Ah, dude." Stiles can picture the dorky smile growing on Scott's lips. "That's so sweet. I like being around you, too."

"Yeah, yeah, I know, we're made for each other," Stiles says sarcastically. "But it's not about us right now."

"No, it's about Derek," Scott drags out the name.

Stiles' ears heat up. "Shut up."

"You shouldn't think too much into it, man. But, if you ask me, I think you like him."

Stiles huffs out a breath, scratching his neck while he's paces around his room. "Yeah...the idea’s starting to grow on me, I think."

"Good. You deserve some happiness in your life."

The comment is quite touching, and it reminds Stiles of something.

"Is it weird that I kinda wanna tell my dad?"

"A little," Scott admits. "But after everything you've been through lately I can imagine you want him to know you're doing well...you know, to give him the same relief that I feel over you right now..."

Stiles nods, but then realises that Scott can't see that. "...I think I'm gonna tell him."

"Do it. I support you."

That makes Stiles smile. "Thanks, Scott."

"No, I'm serious," Scott presses the sentiment. "I'm glad you're doing better. To be honest...it was torture watching you hurting so much these past few weeks."

Stiles swallows, before clearing his throat. "Thanks, man."

"Anytime."

With that, Stiles ends the conversation. He puts his phone back into his pocket before going downstairs. His dad is watching TV, but looks up when Stiles comes into the living room, fumbling nervously with his fingers.

"Are you okay, son?" he wonders, worry evident in his eyes.

Stiles sits down next to him and nods. "Yeah, I'm fine," he reassures him. "I just want to talk to you about something."

"What is it?" he asks, taking a sip from his water. Stiles watches him and smiles. It's nice to know that his dad really does only drink on Thanksgiving.

"I met this guy," Stiles starts. "Like, a couple of weeks ago."

"Yes..."

"And we've been hanging out a lot lately, you know, just casual stuff..."

"Sure."

Stiles moves into a cross-legged position, hands folded in his lap. He stares down at them.

"I was there again tonight," he confesses.

There's a suggestive humming sound from the back of his father's throat. Stiles knows he's realizing that his son hadn't been completely honest when he said he was going to a friend's house that night. He doesn't comment on it, though.

Stiles takes a deep breath. "And we kissed."

At first his dad doesn't respond, so Stiles looks up at him carefully. The Sheriff has a hard look on his face, but Stiles can't tell if it's anger.

"Dad?"

"Who is he?"

"His name's Derek," Stiles says. "He lives downtown in one of those loft buildings, you know?"

"Hmhm."

Stiles nods, catching his bottom lip between his teeth. "So..."

"And how old is he?"

Stiles sits up a little. "Well, err... he's, err..." he stammers, gesticulating with his hands. "He's twenty four," he admits, voice barely a whisper.

"That's old."

Stiles scoffs. "Well, not compared to you. Ha." He knows it's a super lame joke, but he has to do something to break this awkward tension.

His father looks unamused. "Are you in love with him?"

Stiles shrugs a little. Why do people keep asking him that? "I might be, yeah... I'm not sure. I think I like him, though."

His dad nods slowly. Then, he gets up, taking his empty glass with him. "Dinner. Thursday night," he announces while walking towards the kitchen.

"Wait. What?" Stiles says, flabbergasted.

His dad turns around, a sly grin around his lips. "Looks like you finally have a good reason to set up that third place at the table..." He shrugs with an obvious look on his face.

And Stiles can't believe his life right now.

"My dad has invited you for dinner on Thursday," he texts, not wanting to waste any time.

"Already?" Derek sends back.

It is then that Stiles realizes that everything is playing in fast forward. Maybe that's okay for him, but that doesn't mean Derek feels the same way. Coming to think of it, everything really is going as quickly as hell. Just barely two hours ago they had their first kiss and now Stiles was already inviting Derek for dinner with his dad.

"You don't mind, do you?" - Stiles

"Not at all." - Derek

Stiles huffs, frowning at his phone. He's sitting cross-legged on his bed.

"Are you sure?" - Stiles

"Yes." - Derek

Stiles can't imagine Derek being okay with it, but then his own excitement overtakes him again and he accepts Derek's answer. There's something fizzing in his stomach and he starts hiccuping from the bubbles that boil to the surface. That's how excited he is.

To Stiles' surprise, his dad also seems excited. Probably because it's the first time he's going to get to have dinner with one of the people his son is dating. Tuesday comes around, and he's already making plans.

When his dad asks what kind of food Derek likes, Stiles answers reluctantly with "spinach".

"I could make lasagne?" the Sheriff offers.

"Sure."

"Or is that too simple?"

"It's fine, dad," Stiles chuckles, shaking his head at his father, who quickly begins flipping through pages in one of their old cookbooks. "You don't have to prepare something impressive."

"Of course I do. He's your boyfriend."

Stiles looks up from his homework. "He is not my boyfriend."

"He isn't?"

"No..."

"But you like each other, don't you?"

"Yeah... But we're not boyfriends."

His dad blinks at him. "Huh," he says, before shrugging it off. "You kids nowadays. You complicate things way too much."

Stiles scoffs. "What? You're saying you and mom were boyfriend and girlfriend from the moment you first kissed?"

"Of course," his dad answers matter-of-factly. "But that's because, in my day, people only kissed each other when they liked each other. Not just when they were feeling like it."

"Sure, dad," Stiles comments, not believing him.

His dad snickers before he closes the book. "Right, lasagne it is."

Stiles smiles. "Sounds good."

He can hardy believe how supportive his father's being. He never would have thought that they would be able to talk about him liking someone, let alone him kissing anyone. It's a little odd, but also new and fun. It makes Stiles feel like he's an adult.

"Are you excited for tomorrow tonight?" Scott asks the next day at school.

"I am," Stiles nods. "But also a little nervous."

"I would be nervous as well," Lydia agrees. "I've never introduced any of my boyfriends to my mom."

"Really? You wouldn't introduce Aiden to her?" Scott asks. "I thought you said he's great."

Lydia nods. "He is... But it's not about him." She gives a suggestive wink.

"Does she even know you have a boyfriend?"

"Nope."

"Why not?"

Lydia scowls. "There's no way I'm talking to my mom about my boyfriends. Please."

"I actually liked talking to my dad about it," Stiles admits, a little cautiously.

"That's because your dad is great like that," Lydia comments.

Stiles shrugs a little. He isn't going to go against that statement. His dad really is great.

"Is Derek nervous?" Scott changes the subject.

"I don't know. He hasn’t said that he is," Stiles answers.

"You haven't asked him?"

"No? Why would I?"

Scott shakes his head at him. "Dude, that's thoughtful and stuff. Maybe he hasn't slept for the past three nights and needs your reassurance that it's all going to be okay."

"Oh."

Derek doesn't seem like one of those people who’d freak out over such a small thing. Still, Stiles decides to send him a text anyway.

"Are you nervous about tonight?" - Stiles

"A little." - Derek

"Why?" - Stiles

"Because your dad's the Sheriff, and I don't know if you've noticed, but I'm much older than you, smartass." - Derek

Stiles' eyes widen at the answer he hadn't been expecting.

"I was right, wasn't I?" Scott comments with an obvious look.

"Shut up," Stiles says, fingers tapping on his screen.

"You don't have to be nervous. My dad's really looking forward to it, actually." - Stiles

"Hmm. Well, alright then. If you say so." - Derek

Stiles puts his phone down. "Crisis averted," he announces. "See? I can be thoughtful. I don't think Derek cares that much about it, though."

His phone buzzes again.

"Thanks, Stiles." - Derek

Scott snickers, because he can tell from Stiles' facial expression what’s just happened. "I'm sorry, what did you say again?"

"Shut up."

On Thursday afternoon, Stiles’ nerves are peaking. Not even because of the dinner, but because it's the first time he'll be seeing Derek after their kiss. Are they going to have some alone time? Will they kiss again? Stiles can only hope.

The lasagne is in the oven when the doorbell rings, and Stiles is in such a rush to answer it that he almost runs through the wall.

"Hey!" he shouts after opening the door.

He looks at Derek, who is wearing quite the formal attire, making Stiles' jaw drop an inch. "Wow, you look..." he swallows. "Wow."

Derek chuckles, hands casually pushed into his pockets. "Thanks." The black blazer accentuates his chest and even though they're not trousers, those black jeans are just about right. They eliminate the stiffness of the outfit.

"Come on in," Stiles says. "Dad's cleaning up the kitchen."

Derek steps in, pausing in front of Stiles. He leans in, pecking a kiss to Stiles' lips, who is too taken aback by the gesture to respond to it in time. "Hi," Derek says in such a deep voice that it makes goosebumps appear on Stiles' skin.

The boy shies away slightly, his feet kicking the doormat. "Hi," he squeaks.

Derek has this playful grin on his face, and Stiles wants to slap him for a moment, but instead opts for a shoulder-fist-bump. "Come on," he indicates, leading Derek towards the kitchen.

"Dad?" Stiles calls when they enter, heart thumping in his chest. "This is Derek."

The Sheriff looks up from the oven, grinning when he lays eyes on the stranger. "Derek," he nods, sticking out a hand. "Nice to meet you."

"Pleasure's all mine, Sheriff Stilinski," Derek says, taking the hand.

Stiles gapes at Derek in disbelief, then turns towards his father and gives him an impressed look. His dad ignores him.

"Would you like a beer, Derek?"

"Sure. Thank you," Derek accepts the offer.

"Dinner's going to take a little while longer. Why don't we sit down for a bit?"

The younger males nod, and Stiles leads Derek towards the living room. Derek takes his time to look around, moving along the dresser where some family pictures have been put up. "You have a nice home," Derek says.

Stiles assumes he's talking to him, but his dad proves to be quicker. "Thanks," he replies. "It's a nice house; not too big, not too small."

"We never thought about moving," Stiles chips in. "Also because of all the memories, you know."

Derek nods. For a second there's a glimmer of hurt in his eyes and Stiles just about catches it. "Yeah, I get that," he says, voice a little low, before taking a swig from his beer.

"Do your parents still live in your family home?"

Stiles' face falls, eyes widening. He had totally forgotten to tell his dad about Derek's family. "Dad, I don't think-"

"It's okay," Derek soothes Stiles with a wave of his hand. He turns to the Sheriff. "Actually, my family's house burnt down during a very vigorous fire when I was younger."

Stiles' dad frowns. "Wait... Are you one of the Hales?"

"I am," Derek confirms.

The Sheriff nods, looking at Derek with a hard look. "My team and I investigated that fire. Never found out what caused it. That must've been hard for you."

"It was," Derek admits. "...But it's in the past. I've put it behind me."

Stiles lets out a sigh of relief. Crisis averted. Maybe he shouldn't worry so much. On the other hand, he thinks Derek's lying, because Stiles doubts the guy has really accepted what has happened. It must be hard, not knowing what started the blaze. At least Stiles knows his mother was shot, which is still a tragedy, but Stiles figures a tragedy is better than a mystery. At least there’s closure. "Sit down," he says, gesturing towards the sofa.

Derek does so and Stiles sits down next to him. The Sheriff takes a seat in his chair. "So what do you do for a living, Derek?"

"I'm painter," Derek answers.

The Sheriff seems surprised at that, but interested nonetheless. "So you like art, huh?"

"I do, sir."

"My wife loved art as well," Stiles' father says.

"Yeah, Stiles mentioned she was a photographer?" Derek suggests, looking back at Stiles, who's nodding proudly at him.

The Sheriff smiles, flicking his eyes towards his son for a moment. He seems pleased that Stiles talked about his wife. "She was. And a pretty good one too," the Sheriff explains. "She mostly did scenery, used to take Stiles with her all the time."

"She sounds like a lovely woman."

"She was."

All the while, Stiles is chewing on his bottom lip. "Can we talk about something more fun now?" he asks. "I don't mind talking about mom, but I do mind talking about how she 'was'." He air quotes the last word.

The Sheriff laughs. "Sure, son. What do you want to talk about?"

"Why don't you tell Derek about the time mom shoplifted?" Stiles offers. He can already hear Derek snickering beside him.

His dad's eyebrows knit together for a moment, but then he remembers. "Ah, yes! Well, it was just a normal day at the office and suddenly..."

A couple minutes later the sound of three bursts of laughter rings throughout the Stilinski household. It's the nicest sound Stiles has ever heard, even better than when Derek spoke his name for the first time.

Dinner is served half an hour later, and the men laugh at the Sheriff's flower patterned oven mitts. Stiles and his dad sit down at their usual spots at the table. Derek takes the other; the third place. The one where Stiles' mother used to sit. He watches Derek sit down, a lump forming in his throat. He quickly swallows around it, but then his mother's words echo in his mind, "Sometimes good things have to make room for other good things to happen."

The lump is back and he takes some sips from his Coke. Derek examines him with a worried look, but Stiles shakes his head, throwing him a small smile. Derek seems to accept that, and Stiles knows they'll talk about it later instead.

"Alright, here goes nothing," the Sheriff says after he has served all three of them.

They all take a bite simultaneously. Stiles is genuinely impressed with his dad's cooking skills. He can hardly even taste the spinach.

"This is really good," Derek says after he has swallowed.

"Yeah, dad, you did great. Well done," Stiles compliments through chews.

"It is quite good, isn't it?" his dad replies, a sense of pride sounding through his voice.

"I assume that you don't really cook that often?” Derek asks.

"No. Not at all," the Sheriff says, wiping his mouth with his napkin. "My wife always used to cook, because I don't have time for it. Crazy hours at the station and all."

Stiles nods. "Yup, so it's mostly pizza and take away for us."

"Hey, you're making it sound like I don't feed you properly," his dad complains. "I cook sometimes, just not a lot."

"Yes, dad, your mac and cheese is awesome," Stiles teases. "A real culinary marvel."

"You love my mac and cheese."

"As long as you don't burn it."

Derek's muffled chuckling sounds in the background of their argument.

"I almost never burn it."

"Really, dad? Did you forget about Christmas 2012? And then 2013?" Stiles reminds him.

His dad laughs. "Okay, yeah, I always seem to burn it on Christmas." He shrugs at Derek. "I don't know why, just happens."

"It's awful," Stiles comments, taking another bite.

"No, it's tradition," the Sheriff jokes.

Stiles looks at Derek. "Great. It's a tradition now. Be sure you have plans over Christmas."

Derek grins. "It sounds great, actually."

"Oh, please, don't be so formal," Stiles scowls.

"No, it really does!"

"Did your family have any traditions?"

"Oh, we had a lot," Derek answers. "Christmas, Easter, Fourth of July, Thanksgiving. We had something for all of them, and most of them were awful."

"Like what?" Stiles wants to know.

"Well, for example, my uncle would dress up as Santa. Every year," Derek explains. "And for some reason we always had to act very surprised and like we didn't know it was him. Even after my sister and I found out Santa isn't real, we had to act like we still believed, all for my uncle."

Stiles laughs. "What else? Was there one tradition you did like?"

Derek thinks for a while. "I guess I always liked Thanksgiving," he says. "I liked the whole house being full of people, you know, the men drinking beer and watching the games while the women cooked what they had gathered that morning."

"Wait, what?" Stiles interrupts. "The food you 'gathered'?"

Derek blinks at him. "Yeah. We used to go out very early in the morning to find a turkey. My grandpa liked to hunt."

"Really?!"

"Yeah."

"So you would literally cook and eat the turkey you had caught in the morning?"

"Yup. It was a hard job as well, because believe it or not, those birds as fast. Most of the time my dad and I would laugh at my grandpa missing them."

Stiles grimaces. "Gross."

Derek chuckles. "The thought of it might be gross, but it isn't much different from buying it in the store. The only difference is that you've seen your dinner run around."

The Sheriff laughs at that.

"Yeah! Which is weird!" Stiles exclaims.

"Nah, it was fun," Derek dismisses his disgust. "I remember this one time I found this orange hat in the woods. It had fox ears on it and I took it home and gave it to my sister. She looked adorable in it."

The sound of a fork hitting a plate sounds through the room. Stiles is staring at Derek, eyes glistening with shock.

"An orange hat?" he asks. "Wait. How old were you that year?"

Derek shrugs. "I don't know. I guess I was like...twelve?"

Stiles slowly licks his lips. "So...twelve years ago...?"

Derek frowns at him. "Yeah..."

"I-I had a hat like that...and I lost it...the day my mom died..." Stiles stammers.

Derek's eyes widen.

"A-And your grandfather...he...he missed his shots a lot...?" Stiles stammers.

The Sheriff opens his mouth to say something. "Stiles, I-"

"Oh my God," Stiles whispers, unable to tear his eyes away from Derek, tears stinging behind them. "Your family house...it's in the woods, isn't it? The same woods where we first met? Near the same spot where my mom got-" Stiles has forgotten how to breathe. "Oh my God...y-your grandfather ki-"

He can't finish the sentence. Tears start rolling down his face. "I have to-"

He stumbles up from his chair, which falls backwards in the process. Stiles’ entire body is shaking and he feels sick to his stomach.

"Stiles, sit down," the Sheriff says softly.

"N-No... I..." Stiles mumbles, licking his lips. His vision is blurred from the tears in his eyes. Every time he blinks more of them start to roll down his cheeks. "I need some air," he gasps, turning around and walking out of the room.

"Stiles, wait!"

Stiles sniffs, walking out of the house as quickly as he can. He gets into his jeep, and doesn't even hesitate to hit the gas and drive off. His mind is completely blank, aside from the one thought that keeps spinning around in his head.

Derek's family killed his mother.

Stiles breaks. He bursts into tears while driving, sobbing out loud. He can barely see the road ahead of him, but he doesn't need to. He knows where he's going and he has driven that road many times before.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles Stilinski is a student at Beacon High who was only five years old when his mother passed away, leaving him and his father, the Sheriff, alone. With a wall covered in pictures of her, Stiles ventures to the lake where she died every Thanksgiving to remember his mother.  
> But one day, when he’s seventeen years old, he meets a guy there; one who's mysterious and silent. His leather jacket hugs his upper body as he stares out across the lake, and Stiles tries to make contact, but the stranger ignores him. He only says his name when Stiles is about to leave. “Derek”.  
> Stiles has never had this happen to him, but he can’t get the name out of his head. What was this man doing there, at that lake full of memories, and how might his presence affect Stiles’ grief?

He's still crying when he gets to his spot in the woods. For what it's worth, Stiles doesn't think he's ever going to stop crying. How could the universe do this to him? How could it make him fall in love with someone who is linked to the death of a person he had held so dear? This was his mother, for God's sake. And now, every time he looked at Derek, he would think of her. Every time he kissed Derek, he would blame him, because he couldn’t blame the person who was really responsible for his mother’s death. And it's so fucked up, because that person has already gotten what he deserves; death himself. Which is an even more fucked up thing to think, because it's still Derek's grandfather.

Stiles sits down on the grass, pulling up his knees against his chest. "So unfair..." he whispers between racking sobs.

Nothing in the world could make this right. Fate has let him down completely and there's no way it can fix this. He didn't deserve this, either, which is what makes it worse. Stiles always thought bad things happened to bad people, but he doesn't think of himself as a bad person. Sure, he’s no golden child, but what the universe has now decided to punish him with...that's way too harsh.

"Stiles!"

The boy looks up, his back to the voice calling his name, but he doesn't have to turn around to know who it is.

"Go away! Leave me alone!" he shouts back, tears streaming down his face. "I don't wanna talk about it."

He can hear the footsteps closing in on him and then there's a warm hand on his shoulder. It makes Stiles shiver, even though he doesn't want his body to react that way.

"Stiles..." Derek calls him again, voice a little lower than before. "I am so sorry... I didn't know."

"I know you didn't know," Stiles exclaims, wiping his face dry with the sleeve of his hoodie. "I know you didn't know and I know I can't blame you."

"But you do."

Stiles shoots up. "How can I look at you, Derek?!" he says, after he has turned to face him. "How can I look at you now and not think about what your family has done to mine?!"

Derek sighs, his hand still on Stiles’ shoulder. A silence falls between them as Stiles stares into the nothingness before him.

"I'm genuinely asking..." he whispers. "Because...because I'd love to get past this and be..." He sighs. "I want to stop hurting..." He swallows, biting his bottom lip. "So, if you have any ideas, please tell me..."

Derek shakes his head, lifting his shoulders a little. He opens his mouth a couple of times, but he doesn't say anything. Not until he finally admits, "I don't know."

And of course, Stiles knew that. Of course he knew that Derek didn't have the answer to solve the problem of his heartache, but it still hurt. The utopian world his mother once showed him had been gone for twelve years. Now he had finally found someone who could help him see things through a different lens, and, once again, that world had been shattered. It was almost as if Stiles didn’t deserve to be happy, and he didn’t know why.

"Sometimes..." Stiles finally turns to look at Derek. "...Sometimes things just are the way they are," Derek reminds him.

Stiles' bottom lip is trembling, fresh tears brimming in his eyes. He shakes his head softly, finding that even the rainbows in Derek's eyes can't bring any comfort to the situation.

Derek tightens his grip on Stiles' shoulder as he pulls him forward. Stiles lets him. He falls against Derek’s chest, hiding his face in his jacket. The tears dampen the fabric, but Stiles doesn't care. His world has imploded and nothing seems to have any meaning any more.

Derek wraps his arms around Stiles, whose body is rippling into sobs. He strokes the boy's back in an attempt to soothe him, but Stiles doesn't feel it. There is nothing - absolutely nothing - with the capability to take this pain away. Stiles tries his best, because he would love nothing more than to be able to sink into Derek's warm embrace and have the world made whole again. Maybe even with a cup of chamomile tea.

But it isn't happening.

"I should go. My dad's probably worried," Stiles chokes out.

"He's at the parking lot," Derek says. "He dropped me off here..."

Stiles nods. He pulls away from Derek, wiping his eyes again. Then, he walks past the man without saying another word.

"Do you want me to come with you?" Derek asks softly.

Stiles sniffs. "I think I need to be alone for a bit."

Derek nods, but Stiles doesn't see it. He refuses to turn around, because he knows that if he does, he won't be able to keep himself together. And he doesn't want that. He doesn't want to keep breaking over and over again every time he sees Derek. He just wants peace.

"Stiles, I don't-"

"I'll see you at home, dad," Stiles dismisses his father when he reaches the parking lot. He steps into his jeep and drives off, his father's police car hot on his heels.

Once home, Stiles is already halfway up the stairs when his dad catches up to him. This time, he manages to stop him.

"We need to talk about this, son," he says, with a hard look on his face. "You shouldn't be alone in your room right now."

Stiles shrugs. He doesn't think talking about it will help, but there's something inside of him that wants to give it a chance. Mostly because he doesn't want to give his father even more to worry about. He shuffles back down into the living room, slumping onto the sofa and rubbing his face.

"Here," his father hands him a glass of water. "You need to calm down."

Stiles nods, taking a sip from the glass. "I can't believe it..."

His father nods, a pained expression on his face. "I know it's a lot to take in, son."

That's when Stiles realizes his dad might be in shock as well. Stiles looks up at him.

"You seem fine, though."

The Sheriff swallows, averting his gaze, and then locks eye with his son again. "That's because I already knew."

Stiles' mouth falls open. "You knew?"

"I did," his dad confesses. "I was the one who investigated your mom's death. I made sure they brought in a ban on hunting in the forests around Beacon County."

"So you knew all along that Derek's family was responsible for mom's death?!" Stiles asks, incredulous.

"Well, I didn't know it was this Derek..." the Sheriff explains, gesturing towards the dinner table they had sat at. "But when he told me his last name and about the fire, I remembered."

Stiles' face falls into his hands. "Oh my God..." he breathes, shaking his head.

"I know it's a lot to take in."

Stiles scowls. "You can say that again."

His dad nods, rubbing his son's back.

"But you can't blame Derek for what has happened..."

"I know," Stiles confirms in a heartbeat. "I know I can't blame him, but I..." He exhales a trembling breath. "But I can't be with him...not when I know...this."

His dad flashes a crooked smile. "Son, you have to do what feels right. For you," he encourages him. "But, if you ask me..." He sighs. "It's so long since I've seen you this excited and this happy...you obviously really like him..."

Stiles can feel himself choking up again - because, yes - yes, he likes Derek a fucking lot.

"...And, you know, sometimes..."

"...Good things have to make room for other good things to happen," Stiles finishes his sentence.

"And you never would've met Derek if it weren't for what happened," his dad reminds him.

Stiles nods, biting down vigorously on his bottom lip. "I suppose that's true..." he admits. "But, I... I can't." He wipes his eyes again. "Or at least, not right now."

"It doesn't have to be right now," his dad says, extending his arm further along Stiles' back.

Stiles lets his head fall against his father's shoulder, and the man responds by pressing a kiss into his hair. "It's gonna be alright, son..." he whispers.

Over the rest of week, Stiles receives texts from Derek every single day. In the morning, it's a simple "hi". Then at lunch, a fragile "how are you?". And right before Stiles goes to sleep, it's a hopeful "sleep tight". Upon reading every one of them, Stiles can't help but smile a little, although his stomach keeps churning.

He's in love with Derek. That he knows. He can tell from the doodles of his name in his notebook. From his heart skipping a beat whenever his phone buzzes. He can tell from the soft prayers he speaks at night, asking for the strength to move past this.

But he can't. He doesn't know what to do. He doesn't know what he needs. He doesn't have anything.

"Have you spoken to your dad recently?" Stiles asks while he's splayed across Scott's bed.

Scott had invited him to do homework, and as lame as it was, Stiles had gladly accepted. It meant being distracted.

His friend looks up, seeming to hesitate a little. "Yeah, I have..."

"What about?"

Scott shrugs. "Stuff," he answers vaguely.

Stiles gives him a look, knowing Scott doesn't want to share something nice when Stiles is feeling like shit. Stiles had told him what happened with Derek.

"Fine," Scott sighs. "He apologized for leaving and explained why he did so. Apparently he's an alcoholic."

Stiles seems surprised by that. "He is?"

"Yup. He left because he was afraid he might hurt me or mom one day."

"Is he still an alcoholic now?"

"No, he got help."

"Aren't you still mad at him?" Stiles wants to know.

Scott presses his lips together for a moment, a hard look on his face. "Not really, no," he then answers. "I mean, I understand why he left...and while it doesn't make it right, I also don't wanna stay mad at the past, you know? I mean, it's not like I can change it."

Stiles nods, averting his gaze back to his history book.

"He's here now, and I suppose that's all that matters," Scott finishes. "I can only change the future."

"Wise words," Stiles breathes, tears stinging the back of his eyes. There's a feeling in his gut he can only describe as the colour green, the boy secretly offended that, of course, Scott can rationalize and accept things while he can’t.

Scott gets up from behind his desk, moving over to Stiles. "I didn't mean to upset you," he apologizes, after he has sat down next to him.

"No, it's fine. You didn't," Stiles lies, hating himself for being jealous.

Scott's face falls as he puts a hand on Stiles' back. "Have you spoken to Derek lately?"

"He texts me every day," Stiles sighs.

"And have you texted anything back?"

"Nope."

"Why not?" Scott pushes.

"Because I can't!" Stiles answers with a little more force then he had intended. Scott squeezes his neck.

Stiles can hear his friend sucking in a deep breath.

"I think you should talk to him," Scott blurts out. Stiles can hear the relief in his voice when he does so.

Stiles turns his head to look at Scott. "You do?"

"Yeah," Scott nods, shying away a little from the face to face confrontation. "I mean, why not? You've got nothing left to lose and...I don't know, talking to my dad really helped me accept things as they are, so maybe talking to Derek will do the same for you. Like, stepping into the lion's den."

"I don't know..." Stiles hesitates. "What if things only get worse?"

"What do you mean?"

"What if, I don't know, I can't get past it and Derek gets sick of waiting for me?"

Scott frowns. "...You mean like he's doing now?"

Stiles blinks at him. "Right..." He lets out a deep breath. "Okay, I'll text him."

He retrieves his phone from his pocket, sitting up in the process. Scott's hand slides from his back to his knee and he looks up at him.

"So...what should I send?"

Scott chuckles, throwing him a calm, soothing smile. "Tell him that you wanna meet up?"

"Shouldn't I reply to his last message?"

"When was his last message?"

"This morning."

Scott thinks about it.

"I'm going to sound like an ass anyway, aren't I?" Stiles sighs.

"Yup."

"Can we talk?" - Stiles

He isn't surprised when his phone buzzes just a couple of seconds later. A wave of relief washes over him, gratefulness that Derek is still holding onto whatever relationship they have.

"I can come over tonight? After dinner?" - Derek

Stiles confirms.

"Done," he says to Scott.

The guy smiles at him, ruffling his hair. "Great."

Scott tries to ask exactly what Stiles wants to talk about, but the latter boy can only reply with "I don't know." In the end, he figures he'll just see what happens. They agreed that the outcome should be something positive; whether Stiles and Derek ended up together or not, Stiles needed to be okay with the situation. He had to accept and overcome his past.

That evening, Stiles is forced to have dinner by himself. His dad has to work late at the station and for the first time, Stiles minds, because now he's forced to recognize his nervousness and overthink his impending talk with Derek. There's this yearning, grating sensation in his bones at the constant impact of different emotions. It's exhausting.

So Stiles is glad when the doorbell finally rings.

He swallows, taking a deep breath before he opens the door. When he meets Derek's eyes, his heart jumps while his stomach sinks. And so the war inside him wages on.

"Hey," Derek greets him, seeming a little uncomfortable himself.

"Hi," Stiles breathes awkwardly, not knowing where to look. The rainbows are too intense.

He invites Derek in, walking up to his room. Stiles decides he wants to show him something. He doesn't know exactly why yet, but it feels like the right thing to do.

"So...how have you been?" Derek asks when they've stepped into his bedroom.

Stiles shrugs. "On and off, I guess."

Derek nods, shifting his weight from one leg to the other as he looks around Stiles' room.

"Come here," Stiles indicates with a wave of his hand, motioning for Derek to come over.

Derek does as he is told, coming to stand next to Stiles. They both turn to the wall in front of him, covered in photographs.

"Are these the ones you-?"

"Yeah," Stiles quickly confirms. "They're all my moms."

"She took a lot," Derek says, sounding impressed.

"She did," Stiles nods.

"Why are you showing me this?"

Stiles huffs out a breath. "I don't know...just thought you should see it."

"They're nice..."

They stare at the wall for a while longer. The silence between them is heavy, yet frail, and the longer it continues, the more Stiles feels like it's going to smother him.

He decides to open with an apology, since apologies are always good.

"I'm sorry for ignoring you this week."

"It's okay. I get it," Derek replies. "You’ve made it perfectly clear that I remind you of..." He nods at the wall. "...this."

Stiles cringes. It didn't sound like an accusation, but the truth is still painful.

"I... I didn't mean to make you feel like shit, you know," he tries to explain, scratching the back of his neck.

Derek turns to look at him. "Why do you keep saying sorry? I mean, I get it. I told you I do."

Stiles blinks, taken aback by Derek's forwardness. Like he has been so many times before. "Because I don't want you to feel bad..."

"Why not?"

Stiles frowns, catching Derek's stare. "Because it's not your fault."

A small smile forms around the corners of Derek's lips, eyebrows shooting upwards in surprise.

Stiles gives him a weird look, but then his mind starts to clear, slowly realizing what just happened. "It's not your fault," he repeats.

The muscles in his face relax as he repeats those four words. "It's not your fault."

The more he says it, the more it seems to sink in. His mother's death isn't Derek's fault. It isn't anyone's fault. It happened. It's in the past.

He perks up, every ounce of weight lifting off his shoulders. "Oh my God," he whispers. "I don't blame you any more." He turns back to Derek. "I don't blame you. How...how...how have I stopped blaming you?"

Derek stares at him intently, knowingly. "You really don't know?"

Stiles stares back into Derek's eyes and then, suddenly, he notices a hint of a feeling. It's tiny, but definitely there; a little sparkle in his chest that's making his heart race. He can feel it in his limbs. His feet are growing numb and his fingers have started buzzing. There's this anticipation; a warm feeling growing in his upper body. And...and it's coming close to bursting out of him. There’s surely just a few seconds left before his head will explode with it, his conciousness lifting up into the sky. Up above the clouds, where the sun is always shining and there are no shadows blocking some of the rays. Stiles doesn't have to squint his eyes any more to avoid the brightness. He suddenly notices a picture on his wall; one of him and his and mother. She’s there there with him and now his lips are pressing against Derek's. Tiny tears form in the corners of Stiles' eyes, and a sudden realisation shoots through his being. He's finally living in that utopian world his mother spoke of. He understands. He finally understands that, yes, nothing's perfect, but that doesn't that he himself can't make it so. He just has to see things from a different perspective, from a different angle, through a different lens.

The lens of acceptance.

The kiss lingers for a couple of seconds more, but Stiles has to break it eventually. He has to speak. He has to say it.

"I can't keep living in the past," he huffs breathlessly. "I can't keep blaming God, fate, the universe. I can't keep blaming you. I don't want to keep blaming anything or anyone." He sniffs, smiling through his words, his forehead pressed against Derek's. "I accept it. I accept what happened, because...you...God." He licks his lips, tasting Derek again. The strong smells of petrichor and a smoking campfire intoxicate his lungs again. "Because you're way better than all of that."

Derek kisses him again, this time on his forehead, before pulling him against his chest. "...Finally," he whispers against his hair.

And in the safety of his arms, it finally dawns on Stiles that this isn't the universe's way of making him suffer. It's the opposite. Fate brought him to Derek as compensation for what happened to Stiles. To show him that, yes, life can be unfair, but it isn't bad.

Life is good.

**Author's Note:**

> Don't forget to let me know what you think!


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